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The Afterlife of Certain Trees (Skeleton Dock)
dock, black silhouettes like tree skeletons after a forest fire
Hyperion still reaching for the sun
sway in the wind with hurricanes and seas
fog-breather, tannin-secreter
sorrel and laurel such pretty companions
I see the knots where branches grew
canopy shading until they too, dropped to the ground
you, a four-poster bed where ships safely rest
masts of your wooden mates lean against your towers of power
your friends wave to you from log cabins on the hill
your cousin’s ribs sear in the sunset
your roots are not where you’ve been driven
your shiny stump on a hillside worth more to you
than your stumpage rate
I see the scars of saws and claws
murder of burdock, gull skulls and crow caws
dominoes standing in a dominion of sand
skyscrapers full of stories
candelabra cotillion, cordons on the quay
Octopi, Calypso, and Davey Jones dance at your feet
their serpentine arms always pulling down something to eat
Up your staircase return from the dead:
Cronos, Persephone, Owen Chase, and many lost men
in the invisible, a sailor’s ear echo-locates his home cliff
out of the fog you poke your sweet tie-up
your grain formed from stress, dress under duress
pressed to sustain another century
would your silver grain were blonde again
or green, so you could lean
your beauty lies in how hard you tried
embedded in your memory:
your life, your living, your loving, your giving
here, to the touch, your smooth-rough grain
longs to live again, aye, lives,
through evidence we can see
as the skeleton tree still longs for the sun
some lie in the forest eaten by mistletoe, lichens, and moss
springing mushroom spores, semper virens donating new life
osteoporosis setting in
for some, no matter how strong, the axe is always waiting
dock of skeletons, in your afterlife
~ s ~ w ~ a ~ y ~
Tell Me Where
The scallops are where
you tuck your sweatshirt into your pants
and fill it with rocks for a weight belt
The scallops are where
you shed your boots and socks
practice one whole year to hold your breath
no scuba gear
The scallops are on a cliff facing currents
where embryos and fan shells drift north
thirty feet below the lowest tidal low
Where your eyes sting with cold; your eardrums freeze
your scalp shrinks; your lungs will wheeze
Japanese Pearl Divers were my inspiration
to suppress my fears:
killer whales, dog sharks, electric eels, octopi
stinging jelly fish, anemone spines
The scallops are where
a net bag hangs on your shoulder
tied to a signaling rope
One tug: pull up the bag and send it back
Two tugs: pull me up; I’m in danger
Never trust your ropes to a stranger
With a heavy crow bar
I hack and pry my children’s dinner
off the deep dark rocks
I am a mermaid
I am a dolphin
I am euphoric
I have met my challenge
Ruth Hill was born and educated in upstate New York. She traveled North
America extensively, including two years in Alaska and five years sailing
BC. She is now a Certified Design Engineer in northern British Columbia.
Over 60 of her first year works have been selected for publication. Some of
her poems have been archived in Word Catalyst online magazine. Ruth enjoys
email from other writers.
Email: Ruth Hill
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