November 24, 2017
Photo by Heather Ferguson
A Poem by Jack Wesdorp
There’s not much old growth left out on the cape;
the cathedral hemlocks are all long gone.
The climbing oak on the nose at Salt Pond
is a scraggly runt in pretty bad shape.
Paper birches go down to acid rain,
the unfriendly elm on Mayflower Heights
and the castañea both suffer from blight,
beeches get poached for their furniture grain.
The record speaks when you catalog rings:
species increasingly busted for breath,
partridge in a pear tree is just a myth,
our mornings are bleak when the birds don’t sing,
less hawthorne because the bees aren’t there.
I know of one pawpaw, I won’t say where.