Out of the Fire

Woodlings                                                                                         

Suzanne Murphy                                                                                                        

It was a possibility for human tribes

to hear, once upon a time, ancient forests

when winter storms gusted

and balming breezes whispered

along the limbs of redwoods and cedars

Hikers trailed along sharp-edged schist

and moss-shouldered stones,

feet stirred up pine scents on forest walks,

faces lifted to the sun dapple above

and souls to a tree’s blessings

When woodland sentinels are felled

by firestorm or bulldozer scars,

those thieves who steal green majesty,

grey ash and sawdust pepper the air

drive away communities and creatures    

The roar of dry silence — a desert

faeries and owls alike fled refuges

but not forever. Come again watery courses

and lay down nurseries of seedlings

that bide their own growing time

Secreted abundance below sleeping earth

no one sees the slow way roots force

themselves into the labor of reclamation,

save for the sun that rises each day and

celebrates a return of air so sweet to breathe

Rising in a generation clothed in new raiment

trees, river waters, golden grasses, forest denizens

make of the world a place of wonderment.

With renewed reverence, humans step softly

and hear the voices of the forest.