Convince me you have a seed there

(Johnson, VT)

off Plot Road



in March thaw

I stop in a stand



of red pines



to listen to tilt

as each trunk



follows wind



in its crown

& sounds grain



against grain



straining noise

as intimate



as that of a joint



aching into age

I can see



outside the pines



the weave of things

crows in a lone oak



concatenating



the ecotone

where meadow



meets forest



white folks

clear cut

not long ago

to farm hay

on open land



later reclaimed



by the succession

of trees mostly



the mechanism



of small animals

& hard weather



on Clay Hill



above the valley

village I left



on foot to find



up Cemetery

Road the old



graves buried



in terraced drifts

headstones in rows



visible over snow



totally grayscale

except for sumac



at cemetery’s edge



upright red

cones torching



holes in the visual



field the way

the fresh kill



I found en route



melted the snow

its startled predator

had dropped it in



blood & feathers

a deep wet nest



the day looked



less dense

without leaves



but winter felt



thicker with

the effort of getting



there & I went



on past graves

holding settlers



& Civil War vets



until the pines

seemed to charm



me out of myself



to stop & stand

& think touching



their live hard sides



of Plato’s vision

the human not



an earthly but



a heavenly plant

the soul housed



in the head



threaded down

out of abstract



heaven to live

in the physical

soil the human



rooted in the two



worlds I look

up to see



each trunk



unsettled by wind

torque makes



groan & crowns



twist against

roots in earth



the way I might



fight an idea

that seizes me



with its weather



& I wonder

what it sounds like



the loblolly



bioengineered

by ArborGen®



its genes spliced



with Monterey pine

mouse ear cress



sweet gum



& even e. coli

to become



disease resistant



a SuperTreeTM

what makes a tree

their website asks



valuable & answers

superior growth



maximum value



approved by feds

its dense straight



grained wood



climbs to forty six

feet over nine



growing seasons



each tree a version

of Plato’s vision



an earthly plant



imbued with eidos

enough to better



bring it to market



the heavenly power

that keeps the tree



reaching toward it



a cold winter’s

warm day



filled the walk



uphill with thaw

falling loud



from eaves & limbs



& rills thrilled

the angled road



my socks are wet

& I stand thinking

of Thoreau who wrote



convince me you have



a seed there

& I am prepared



to expect wonders



& I think

of transgenic pollen



germinating



after it travels

hundreds of miles



& how farmers



can’t contain

cross-pollination



between spliced



& wild species

& how hybrid trees



will intertwine



with the hungers

of the red squirrel



paused sideways



bright against

dark bark



an acorn between



its orange teeth

& I do not move



further toward



the laboratory

future sewn

in genes chosen



& fused to produce

fruit & fall



to seed a kind



of life not yet

legible to us



I want to believe



wind will make

new wood grain



groan & yellow



curtains of pollen

will billow after



mud season



finishes off

a long winter



I want to believe



birds will drop

coniferous seeds



in fields cleared



of old red oak

& rodents will store



hoards of acorns



that will root

& rise after fires



clear out dry pines



& all will continue

the succession



of trees in a world

in which we’ll touch

others invented



for a profit made



ontological

the very genome



grafted to capital



I stand inside

the charm the stand



makes out of wind



the stand someone

planted & didn’t



harm or harvest



& so has persisted

beyond human



use for so long



the base of each

trunk is ringed



thick with moss



watered by runoff

washing nutrients



down yards of bark



years of touch

create this color



collaring the pines



with a green brighter

than their needles



material relation



the ensoiled soul

we’re rooted in

the way heaven



derives itself

from words for sky



& words for stone



the way a birch

has infiltrated



the symmetrical



stand at an angle

weighted by snow



its rough trunk



bent & its bark

sloughing off



botched swaths



around lichen

in wide ruptures



working upward



a sort of saffron

stain the startle



of fox piss in snow