Regrowth

A painted auburn landscape, knobbed oaks stretching their roots into the soft mud of the marsh. I gaze out over the enclosed body of the windswept marsh, the light brackish stream snaking through, fracturing the jade in two pieces. I rest beneath a protective elm, its grand branches an overstory that shelters me from the wind. A gentle breeze, and a stalk of cordgrass strokes my cheek. Reassurance is soothing and forgiving. Nature whispers to those who wish to listen. She speaks through the vessel of her messenger, a chirping finch, perched on the limb of an aging oak. Nearby, she presents her delicate goldenrod with their blossoming yellow bells, and standing still in the marsh, her snowy-white egret, with his glossy black beak and feathered white coat, with his yolk-yellow mask and sunflower eyes. His curved neck rotates. A sentry.

Nature remains omniscient, but the burnt gold of the Elm’s leaves signals departure. They drift peacefully, resting beside me, until an autumn breeze whisks them away. I gaze out at the waters of the Long Island Sound where an imposing white tanker, with a red hull and rusted spots, glides across the navy surface. Onboard, barrels full of the world’s viscous, gloss-black, murky syrup. I know what Nature longs for. Company, in her grasp. Someone to understand her. She inundated the world with beauty, carried in the elegant, light pink blossoms of a cherry tree, a metallic green hummingbird with her needle beak, and the soft call of light beige mourning doves, but she received destruction in return. Drills penetrating the ground, like mosquitos piercing flesh, draining her blood, fueling our hellish machines. Monstrosities constructed from forged steel and the rubber of trees. Our homes, born from her roots.

The spiraling, cylindrical pipes of a factory across the sound spew a blanketing toxic smog, rising into the heavens. I feel it too. You’re not alone, my dear friend. I comfort her, stroking the fine, gnarled bark of her Elm. Amidst the roaring engines of artificial creation, discarded chip bags, strewn bottles, and wrappers line the banks of the marsh. Amongst the infernal noise of passing cars, a helpless squirrel lies motionless, flattened on the tarmac, carmine blood seeping from its torn body. Stinging tears coat my cheeks as I fall into the depths of my mind’s ocean. Nature’s wounds lie deep, but I know they will heal in time. She always persists, even when life seems dire. When the seas lie still and black, and the lands lie ashen and grey, she will regrow, new life piercing through the charcoal surface. She is stronger than us.

The plump-wren silences her call, alert as my friend the skittish squirrel. The shadows return, colder than the dotted landscape. The goldenrod, still piercing, bloom before death. The Elm grows frail, leaves spiraling from her stretching form. The stems are brittle, snapping with a gust of wind. Her leaves lie burnt, embroidered with delicate patterns of brown hickory, carmine red, and dull gold. In the common reed, the crickets cry and chitter, veiled amongst the dying life. Around me the leaves drain of their color, bleaching as their tone softens. Nature’s whispering becomes frantic, a child before rest. I’m not afraid. I know she will return, blooming from her months of sleep. Beneath the Elm, I stand. Walking away, I look back, its branches a conductor, waving after my departing form. For now, this is goodbye, old friend; your peace brings us together.

Your ashen body and

bristle tail are deceptive, little squirrel --

find peace in your hollow oak.

Charcoal clouds --

the storm soaks the

midday sun’s yolk.

You, along with my family, are all the comfort I need to know that the world will heal, that my heart will heal. For now, it lies shattered, as I see our destruction. Still, I rest assured. Your presence gives me power.