—after Edvard Munch, oil-on-canvas, 1900-01

 

how wily
the steepled pines
along the curved
logging road

they curtsy
in their wide skirts,
open their snow-
baubled arms

come in   this way

rustle us
into the womb
of the forest

when we peer up
to scan
the indigo sky
in hope

for a last
miraculous swell
of late day light,
they entice us back

to lie down,
cut angels
in new snow,
and we find it

an unexpected
comfort, to release
the axe, touch
and be touched,

to forget
what we came
all this way
to raze, to ravage