The Lost Trees (What Remains)
By Jill Jones
Published 8 December 2023
1.
Vago già di cercar dentro e dintorno
la divina foresta spessa e viva,
ch’a li occhi temperava il novo giorno,
Eager now to explore in and around
the divine forest, so thick and bright
softening the new morning light in my eyes,
Dante, Purgatorio, 28.1-3
I woke and felt I’d lost my way, I walked out
into ruckus and rubble, I was too far along
Had I lost the trees?
I couldn’t remember where or how I’d come in
And the wind? Did it sound like a snake
or like bees, living from flower to flower
an imprint of water, hum of consciousness
plant powers, where sun plunges into things
constantly taking their peculiar shape
Wind ties and unties transhuman knots
and something touches me, a hand, a forest
feather-light breath of a bird
Is there still a way to be proper and naked?
Is that just for air? The redolent ground?
Even air has its clouds, dusts, its shades
Is this what I want?
I woke in light that grew finally green with
a day’s early beck as if a river slipped
forever through my hands
Then I felt the trees, the lost and the found
I didn’t know what they were trying to say
but something within me could overhear
— Sleep like a tree, wake
as if sleeping, wake alongside a tree, save
and lose and recover each breath —
2.
Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era
Proserpina nel tempo che perdette
la madre lei, ed ella primavera.
You make me remember what Persephone was like
and where she was in that moment her mother lost
her and when she herself lost her spring.
Dante, Purgatorio, 28.49-51
Can I still dream these relentless beauties
when, here it comes! another super-charged storm or
a scorch mark in air smudging flowers and skin
I hear a truth each day, a neighbourhood
chainsaw across divided air, through a veil of
suburban platitudes, customs of recycling
My walk wilts like clouds hung from gargoyles
and telecoms. Do I acknowledge the semiconductors
of this life, welcome the gamut?
The saw begins again and something hurts truly
among little squashed things, trysting wings
things that chase each, dust-web, float-leaf
A darkness is transplanted out of residential loam
as past and future jolt me through the present
cutting into the magic of where this tree was
Still, I walk out as parrots chatter, they hang
in branches and labyrinths, blue heads
green wings, orange and yellow breasts
In the soft thick light, this is what still is
in the turning pulse of air over pungent earth
the promise of daily sweat, of what remains
Now I don’t know what I’m becoming, I’m neither
a bird nor a cloud nor a tree, not can I be, yet
I’m looser now in today’s slow-finishing light
Truth isn’t difficult to hear, if you can, hear it as
falling water sounding the skin, if it’s not too late
Welcome the vespertine rain!