THE FALLEN EUCALYPTUS

blocking the path along the creek
forces me off the asphalt walk
into vagaries of mud. The leafy top
that braced the kestrel and the red-tailed hawk
and traced the endless circuits of the air
now lies flat in the grass, motionless except for where
a single stem dangles in the creek, unaware
it is no longer of the mist-filled sky
reflected in the water passing by.

Against the trunk of a standing tree:
a wreckage of branches, red sap
coagulating within each stump
like blood. The veed trunk lies
on its side, as if it half expects to rise
again. Were it not for the landscaper,
it might survive for weeks, even months,
for its great tap root yet rumples the earth.

On the surface of the upturned base,
grass and fungi thrive on the precipice,
twisting minutely sunward, but otherwise
undisturbed by the violence
of wet soil. On the far side,
a tangle of roots leaches
droplets into the shallow pool that glints
where once the giant invisibly sucked
life-giving moisture from solid terrain.

Dark clouds gather overhead. At the edge
of the muddy crater, sprigs of anise
nod in the murderous rain.



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Copyright © 2008 by Bradley Steffens

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