Snag
By Ella McDonald
Sometimes you will come across a dead tree,
a skeletal landmark in the spring forest–
its whitegrey trunk exaggerated with age
next to the new growth of the nearby maple
If you are quiet enough, you’ll watch the forest
come to visit—
pick up their gifts and pay their respects.
Hidden from view you’ll hear the wood borer larvae
squeaking morbidity from their mandibles,
fattening themselves in their slow circuits
Or hear the harbinger hammering of a woodpecker
exploring for the end of the feeding gallery
before, in a flash of red, he moves on
And notice the understory has all gathered around in prayer
where sunlight has enlivened a spotlight of new green mess,
leaves twitching upward.
Here I am too, soaking in the possibilities
and celebration of this death, this opening.