Elegy for a Sycamore and Other Poems
by Liv Ross
ELEGY FOR A SYCAMORE
Attend! Attend! comes the call
of the magpie on the wing
startled into mourning flight
for the deadly heartwood blight
has brought down the mighty tree,
caused the Sycamore to fall.
Nevermore will her branches sway,
or that crown she bore aloft.
Dancing limbs are laid in dust.
Iron will is turned to rust.
All that remains is the soft
light from the empty canopy.
In the space she left behind,
the sunlight comes softly down
to new saplings with a story
of a future full of glory,
and a different sort of crown
now growing out from the rind.
She’s carried on by pallbearer ants
and tucked down deep beneath the roots
of juniper, aspen, birch, and pine,
of primrose, violet, and jessamine,
and provide a bed for the shoots
to grow, and in her memory dance.
So the magpie sings a final score,
an elegy for the sycamore.
GREEN FIELDS
It’s far too rare these days to make a home.
For we are restless and too quick to roam,
To cross the tracks and seek out some better
Greener fields and fairer, milder weather.
What do we miss in our mad dash away?
What would we gain if we just dared to stay?
With old neighbors we could while the hours.
Discussing methods for planting flowers,
Or yet, with enterprising children trade
Some quarters for a cup of lemonade,
Then we might visit our beloved bar.
Where all the barkeeps know just who we are.
It takes such bonds many years to harden.
That they may blossom into a garden.
MISSIVE IN A BOTTLE
I give thanks for a moment,
for the brief flash of blue glass
half buried in orange sand.
With tired fingers, I reach to pull it free,
for that half-buried bottle, opened,
spills a cool salt air.
The missive dredges memory
which stings a little,
like golden iodine,
in the chapped folds of my brain
and the broken corners of my once smiling mouth.
Take comfort, my heart.
Lift up, my soul.
Remember, my body.
Home is still there.
It waits by the singing sea,
waits for the day of our return.
LIV ROSS
Liv is an urban monk, a poet, a painter, a birder, and a student of Christian Spirituality. She has been engaged in creative writing more or less consistently for two decades and was slightly startled, though far from displeased, to discover that poetry is her medium.
When she’s not writing, Liv practices gardening, pipe-smoking, leather-working, and mischief. She lives in the Midwest with a dog, Jedi, and two cats, Gandalf and Patroclus.
Peeks into her work can be found on Instagram @liv_ross_poetry or Twitter @je_suis_liv.
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