We wish they were greater, but we’re glad
They continue. The old forest was hacked
And carted off dozens of winters ago.
Its huge stumps remain, stout dwarf armies
Filling the floor between the tall or fallen trunks
Of the new woods, old plugs ragged and green
With moss, as if they were hiding in the trees
Succeeding them, not just revenants without
Intentions. Everything arriving, us included,
Arrives here filtered, improved and reduced.
The light lands filtered, in lines that comb
And parallel the standing conifers at noon.
Sounds from outside, the loudest engines,
Weave around this living baffle and sink
Under the territorial chatter of squirrels
And in the monotonously elegant phrases
Repeated and repeated by each thrush.
Death is filtered through its reclamation by green,
And life is filtered by its dependence, growing
On the hollow trunks and riddled roots of death.
We are filtered by the history of names, we
Who are names and carry names with us, and yet
Continually forget. Someone forgot to name
This secondary growth, although names echo
Faintly from surrounding landmarks, also filtered.
Decomposition and composition together conserve
Energy and momentum. The woods still stand
In a performance of stillness, like royal sentries
Pretending to be statues, a seiching wave
Of pure and single frequency, oscillating,
A giant quantum of definite momentum
But no particular position, standing and asking
What does it mean for meanings—names, tales,
Histories, explanations—to enter and compose
Themselves among our meaningless decompositions
That generate and eat them, these compositions?
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