Pictograph

For every tree burned in this wildfire
we used to call summer, a new spire of light.
For every ruck of Tamarack blown down
by the derecho, a meadow, sometimes
with blueberries. Also, lupine & daisy
in drift by the road. For the bright leaves
that fall, winter sunsets in thrall,
gashed garnet & amber behind bare branches.
For loss of my mother, her daughter
the woman was born. For my father,
freedom from the mute freight of his pain.
When I left my marriage, I broke
my own heart. But also broke a new plot
for love, unscored by time’s yoke
& harrow. I lost everything close, a life
lived for four decades, family & friends.
For them, forty species of bog orchid,
& a pictograph of people paddling canoes
that can be seen only if you are yourself
paddling a canoe. Also, this willow rose gall
with petals green-edged-with-pink,
as complexly cupped as an English rose.
For all my banked sorrow, this glowing
woodstove & late afternoon sun
gold-leafing old cedar walls. A ghost vigil
of poplars pale in the mist. A field
white with hail that will be blue with low fruit
in July. Promise of cobbler & pie
& a row of jars in the window to strain
winter light, stain it red. For the dying & dead.
For eternal war, the ash-dimmed skies
& the boiling seas. For extinct species.
For any wild risk taken & lost,
for having broken the beaker of trust.
For those my leaving wounded & wounds.
Ten thousand lakes sobbed by wild loons.
Ten thousand bird calls at dusk.