The Fallen Tree
A TFP poem
The Fallen Tree
It’s not the moon
commanding tides,
seducing seas,
but her sway;
the river responds
in kind, rising
out of its banks,
leaving its worn
and silent course
for an endless
body of fallen oak,
spruce, cedar adrift
with the bones
of all who have risen,
the faces of all
we have left behind.
TFP IS A PROUD MEMBER OF THE IOWA WRITERS COLLABORATIVE
I’ve read this now multiple times. Each time the physical motion of the river lifting and moving trees becomes more sad and unsettling. It’s a hard loss to lose a tree.