by Lindsey Morrison Grant
The fir stripped of fur
Naked below its bristled neck,
low branches stripped as bare
as fish bones. Was there enough
green to survive? News of its death,
exaggerated, spread along the tree
line. Other saplings sensed the danger:
fawns hidden in tall hay while hungry
does foraged, risked exposure
to chew tender needles.
The fir tree looked like a hat
of needles perched on a coatrack,
only a candle and a few bottlebrush
branches to soak up sun.
The five top branches curved
their tips like fishhooks catching
sky, rising high on summer rain,
until the lowest needles became
unreachable as the fragile ornaments
at the top of a Christmas tree.
Jean Janicke is an economist, coach, and writer. She lives in Washington, DC, United States. Her work has appeared in Green Ink Poetry, Paddler Press, and Honeyguide Literary Magazine.
Self-identifying as a neurodivergent, two-spirit, elder storyteller and contrarian deeply rooted in the roar and lore that’s become Portlandia of The Left Coast, Lindsey Morrison Grant attributes success and survival to superlative supports, mindfulness practice, and daily creative expression in words, sounds, and images. Currently, their visual works are represented by The Siy Gallery of San Francisco.