My Irish grandmother said every house
needs a front duir and felling the oaks
brought bad luck because under golden boughs
was how ancient knowledge was passed on.
From beneath stones, the cycle
of small green claws grasp the sky,
taproot heartline—
sweet red sap, a coursing river
dying in a sea of shadows.
Felled patriarchs in a forced march
across fields in spring,
meteors in the burning night,
the final star gasp of diamond before carbon
returns to base minerals and ash—
how can they regenerate
when we've furrowed the earth
with houses, utility poles and roads?
I remember dreaming the lions
were coming, and the front door, too small
for the doorjam, swung free in the breeze.
89
88
1993 Mother Earth Journal
1990 Green Fuse
needs a front duir and felling the oaks
brought bad luck because under golden boughs
was how ancient knowledge was passed on.
From beneath stones, the cycle
of small green claws grasp the sky,
taproot heartline—
sweet red sap, a coursing river
dying in a sea of shadows.
Felled patriarchs in a forced march
across fields in spring,
meteors in the burning night,
the final star gasp of diamond before carbon
returns to base minerals and ash—
how can they regenerate
when we've furrowed the earth
with houses, utility poles and roads?
I remember dreaming the lions
were coming, and the front door, too small
for the doorjam, swung free in the breeze.
89
88
1993 Mother Earth Journal
1990 Green Fuse
Ascii jumble. Must've revised it in 89got the line breaks right by guessing
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