Sunday, October 8, 2023

The Brush

Someone cleared it, piled it up
Between the fence and the road.
For someone it was a chore,

Presumably reducing
The risk of conflagration—
Clearing brush. Decades ago,

Ronald Reagan would clear brush
On his ranch so frequently
It seemed a euphemism—

The president clearing brush,
Whenever the press corps asked,
Although it was hard to tell—

A euphemism for what?
Dozing on his couch? Hatching
Fresh international plots?

Here it was actual brush,
A heap of twigs and branches,
Abandoned as Frost’s wood pile

To the slow smokeless burning
Of decay. Terribly slow,
Actually. Slow enough

Whole lives—families of voles,
Colonies of ants, seasons
Of spiderlings—had lived there.

It’s possible the fossil
Of this brush pile could be found
In an excavated mound

A few centuries from now—
That’s if Archaeology
Survived as a profession.

Probably not. Already
It had become settled past,
Something someone did one day,

The doing of which remained,
However unrepeated,
Cleared brush one side of the way.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.