Public Republic

Christina Lovin

Photo: FotoDawg

The snow came first, and then the rain—
it froze to everything
exposed, increased upon itself like grief
or love left unexpressed,
until the heavy branches sagged
with melancholy weight.
Some crashed to earth,
some fingered roofs or cars,
electric lines like arcs of flight
across the frozen air.

After all that’s broken breaks,
when men with saws and axes prevail
upon the shattered places,
the sun comes back
like robins to the north in spring—
a flicker here, then full-on flocks of light
that land in trees and fields.

But at the outskirts of the town
a lumbering line : somber trucks
sag beneath their solemn loads
and wait in lines ten deep or more
to haul the ruined forests in,
to where constant plumes of smoke ascend
like ghosts of birds on wings of ash
that rise above the shattered hills.