Upstate Freeze, The

for Fred Busch

That spring the sap had risen when

The ice took hold. Under a sky

That was grey-black it lay

In packed particles that were the same colour.

Risen sap froze in trunks and branches

And tree limbs began to crack from within,

Whole trunks ripped open white

Though not with snow or ice: bare

Tree interiors unhusked themselves there

Smelling of secret places, an intoxication

Of sap filling each nostril. The tree

On which blue herons yearly nested

Lay tipped aside, a sanctuary smashed.

The world was lead and it had blown apart.

Copyright Hudson Review Summer 2004
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