Marcescence
I wander through a shimmering blur of marcescence.
What compels to me to use that fancy word
for the state of a tree whose leaves hang on through winter?
Who knows why on earth we think as we do,
in fact why we do as we do? Mystery prompts us.
The older I get, the surer I am of that,
the more my thoughts appear to be utterly random.
These marcescent oaks and beeches that cling to their foliage
make good cold-weather cover for hunted creatures.
It may be powerlessness I contemplate,
but if so, whose? Leaves whisper along my body
as I shoulder my way through this thicket, no end-point in mind.
They seem to tell me my limited outer vision
should make me look inside, and as I do,
I envision the second-growth grove of hardwoods I walked to–
no, fled to– on learning the idiot younger Bush
had started his misbegotten Iraq invasion,
encouraged by Cheney, Rumsfeld, Perle, and all
the criminal rest. The oak leaves’ umber blended
with the sailcloth hue of the beeches. I caught my breath.
Was that for rage or for sorrow? I couldn’t distinguish.
Now I catch it again. My inward perspective
reveals the oddest connections, if that’s what they are.
Name me an emperor who was ever struck
by a cannonball, for example, said Charles the Fifth,
a Holy Roman Emperor. And why
do I think of that challenge’s relevance just now?
At my feet, there’s an intricate lace-work of vole- and mouse-tracks:
I conjure a barred owl’s lethal, rapacious talons.
The bird might descend like a fighter plane were it not
for marcescent trees that shelter the vulnerable rodents.
I almost want them to shelter me too till I die.