Once a Giant
“The tree guys are here,”
my neighbor texts.
Deep grief in five casual words.
Drought and clumsy pruning
by a previous owner
damaged the heart of her towering cedar.
Branches no longer hold their own weight.
During the pandemic,
we learned to cling
to what we could.
The scent of yellow roses,
a spray of red geraniums,
the mockingbird’s morning call.
Over this fearful, brooding world,
trees stretched their benediction.
But now, all day--
the shouts of arborists
as they negotiate angles,
weight, velocity, arc.
All day—the chainsaw’s buzz,
the chipper’s drone.
Cradled by ropes and pulleys,
30-foot limbs crack,
swing,
descend.
A terrible requiem.
In the aftermath—silence,
sawdust filtered in evening light
redolent of loss,
a hole in the sky
where a giant once stood.
Sandhill Cranes
As we walk along the coastal path,
we share our dreams, the incredible
enchantment of life, how lucky we’ve been
to know the green vibration of forest air,
the flicker of a deer stepping under pine,
the pungent smell of a rock-strewn shore.
Once we were lucky enough to catch
the sandhill cranes in their annual visit
to their sanctuary on the Sacramento Delta.
In solemn step we trailed the guide
to the blind across the water,
pilgrims on a holy quest.
Binoculars ready, we waited silently
as light faded and mist rose
above the dark reeds.
Then the cranes rewarded us,
flying in a few at a time,
then more and more,
till the sky pulsed with wings.
Commuters at dusk returning home,
their feet descended like airplane wheels.
Skimming the water, they settled and fed,
a flock of hundreds, a communal feast.
Slowly, it grew too dark
to see their silhouettes.
We exhaled together and returned
under the blessing of a star-studded sky.
Trellis
Three purple buds uncurl
from the small Clematis seedlings
as the pots sit in the back-porch sun,
the seedlings almost big enough
to transplant.
I keep moving the pots apart,
but like naughty kids on time-out,
they refuse to keep to their own space
and sneak towards each other,
tendrils interweaving.
What can we expect? Their whole nature insists:
Stretch!
Grasp!
Entwine!
It’s time to buy a trellis with a sturdy base
and plant the seedlings in rich dirt
so they are ready to brave the storms of spring.
I recall washing dishes when my son was one.
First, the skitter as he crawled to my bare feet.
Then, the tug as he grabbed my long skirt,
willing himself up and into my arms.
When I dropped him off at daycare each day,
his tiny legs and fists transformed
to octopus tentacles—nature’s strongest ties
strapping around my heart.
Through the years, I gave him love and lessons,
taught him how to face into the wind,
how to hold fast to dreams and friends,
how to transfer his longing to the larger world.
Now his own son grips his finger
and pulls him down the hall.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
“The tree guys are here,”
my neighbor texts.
Deep grief in five casual words.
Drought and clumsy pruning
by a previous owner
damaged the heart of her towering cedar.
Branches no longer hold their own weight.
During the pandemic,
we learned to cling
to what we could.
The scent of yellow roses,
a spray of red geraniums,
the mockingbird’s morning call.
Over this fearful, brooding world,
trees stretched their benediction.
But now, all day--
the shouts of arborists
as they negotiate angles,
weight, velocity, arc.
All day—the chainsaw’s buzz,
the chipper’s drone.
Cradled by ropes and pulleys,
30-foot limbs crack,
swing,
descend.
A terrible requiem.
In the aftermath—silence,
sawdust filtered in evening light
redolent of loss,
a hole in the sky
where a giant once stood.
Sandhill Cranes
As we walk along the coastal path,
we share our dreams, the incredible
enchantment of life, how lucky we’ve been
to know the green vibration of forest air,
the flicker of a deer stepping under pine,
the pungent smell of a rock-strewn shore.
Once we were lucky enough to catch
the sandhill cranes in their annual visit
to their sanctuary on the Sacramento Delta.
In solemn step we trailed the guide
to the blind across the water,
pilgrims on a holy quest.
Binoculars ready, we waited silently
as light faded and mist rose
above the dark reeds.
Then the cranes rewarded us,
flying in a few at a time,
then more and more,
till the sky pulsed with wings.
Commuters at dusk returning home,
their feet descended like airplane wheels.
Skimming the water, they settled and fed,
a flock of hundreds, a communal feast.
Slowly, it grew too dark
to see their silhouettes.
We exhaled together and returned
under the blessing of a star-studded sky.
Trellis
Three purple buds uncurl
from the small Clematis seedlings
as the pots sit in the back-porch sun,
the seedlings almost big enough
to transplant.
I keep moving the pots apart,
but like naughty kids on time-out,
they refuse to keep to their own space
and sneak towards each other,
tendrils interweaving.
What can we expect? Their whole nature insists:
Stretch!
Grasp!
Entwine!
It’s time to buy a trellis with a sturdy base
and plant the seedlings in rich dirt
so they are ready to brave the storms of spring.
I recall washing dishes when my son was one.
First, the skitter as he crawled to my bare feet.
Then, the tug as he grabbed my long skirt,
willing himself up and into my arms.
When I dropped him off at daycare each day,
his tiny legs and fists transformed
to octopus tentacles—nature’s strongest ties
strapping around my heart.
Through the years, I gave him love and lessons,
taught him how to face into the wind,
how to hold fast to dreams and friends,
how to transfer his longing to the larger world.
Now his own son grips his finger
and pulls him down the hall.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.