Wound Wood
In the tutorial of the hills,
Closed Gentians taught me to keep confidences.
A mother bear
demonstrated never putting your best assets up
the same tree twice.
Pine Warblers convinced me, though,
it’s all right to repeat a song, if it’s a good song.
When I edged between tall cliffs,
pairs of bald eagles modeled how to mate for life.
One particular trait of trees
resonated through my thickening skin of bark—
how they generate “wound wood,” to seal off
or callus over injuries.
Some survive for decades, entirely on self-repair.
I would learn to do what trees can do.
No Leftovers
Our trail-boss Larry found the carcass of a moose
on a distant section of the High Ridge.
Larry contacted New Hampshire Fish and Game
for advice—was told, just leave it.
When he went up on the High Ridge a month later,
no more carcass, not even a bone.
That Fish and Game man was right—
in the economics of survival nothing is wasted;
even bones gnawed,
down toward the sweetmeat of marrow. So,
no leftovers. And before reading gruesomeness
into this, we should consider
how it made life easier for Larry,
and how many guests ate their fill at the banquet.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region Conservation Trust.
Sparks of Calliope 