DEBRA PROVIDENCE
To talk of trees
December 2023
For Martin Carter and Olive Senior
In times like these
when shining stars
scorch the sky,
and red flowers droop
at dreadful news,
when Christmas meats
turn bitter and rot and
linger in our throats
In times like these
when we watch the neighbor
mowing the slender grass,
when festive missiles
rend the Holy Night,
and the mewling cattle,
and the dog, and the babe
lay waking, starved for air,
with dust from the rubble
in their mouths and ears
In times like these
it is urgent to talk of trees:
the long-memory olive,
the disconsolate orange,
the bullish pomegranate.
The trees that show
despite the tracks and blades,
and the invaders watching their sleep
and the crosshairs aimed at their
hearts and dreams.
Truly it is urgent,
in times like these,
to study the trees that
witness and whisper
their radical truths,
a susurrus of roots,
their pollen and seeds
ballistic with the shattering,
scattering beyond
these dark times
to start again
and again, with purpose,
sprouting portals
portaling beyond
these dark times
beyond these times
beyond dark times
to start again
and again
and again
in time
In times
like these
in these
dark times
it is vital
to talk
of trees.
Cannon Ball Tree
As children
we called you
comb and brush.
Your flowers:
a blushing of pink
bulbous petals,
fringed with powdery
golden tendrils,
meeting in
feather kisses,
buoyed
by the wind,
encircling
your mother tree,
a wall of scents
guarding her source.
Imagine
our surprise
to learn
the name they gave you
so many years ago,
a name after a thing
that could
break the bones
of the unfortunate souls
in its way.
We named you
comb and brush.
We whisper
your name from
one generation
to the next.
What does it say
that they named you
after a thing
of mass destruction?
Bloody Orange
The orange tree was dragged from the soil. The orange tree was in shock at all the noise, the tears, the blood. The orange tree soaked up all the tears. The orange tree absorbed all the blood. The orange tree crusted over from the din. The orange tree inherited the memories of those plowed into its earth.
The orange tree replays their dreams. The orange tree feels the weight of their screams. The orange tree recalls their last gasp.
In the spring, her blossoms will bloom pink, instead of white. In the spring, crimson juices will flow from her cut offerings. In the spring, they will devour her and choke on her seeds. In the spring, they will know.
