April 2018
Michele Stepto
michele.stepto@yale.edu
michele.stepto@yale.edu
I have taught literature and writing at Yale for many years, and in recent summers at the Bread Loaf School of English in Vermont. About this poem: My dog died and I thought, What more is there to say? Here is an answer of sorts.
Three Trees
The poem sits in the tree
overlooking the stream
where skunk cabbage pokes
its green snout through the wet.
You want me to sing
of renewal, it says,
but my song is of loss.
The poem sits in the tree
by the growing stack
of firewood to burn
next winter.
Shall I praise effort
it asks, or the coming cold
when all effort ends?
The poem sits in the tree
whose late fruit
overhangs the spot
where you buried
the dog you loved
to keep him close by.
Caw, it sings. Caw, caw.
Three Trees
The poem sits in the tree
overlooking the stream
where skunk cabbage pokes
its green snout through the wet.
You want me to sing
of renewal, it says,
but my song is of loss.
The poem sits in the tree
by the growing stack
of firewood to burn
next winter.
Shall I praise effort
it asks, or the coming cold
when all effort ends?
The poem sits in the tree
whose late fruit
overhangs the spot
where you buried
the dog you loved
to keep him close by.
Caw, it sings. Caw, caw.
© 2018 Michele Stepto
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