restless to the sound of saw and chipper
clearing deadwood around the house
ahead of the fire season
i cut my hair sewing scissors
in the bathroom mirror.
long dark strands on the floor.
in the quiet of evening
beyond the saws
i buried it forest litter
amongst the roots of tree.
muttering prayers and promises
i hope to keep despite the slow creep
of city across hills
spilling its restless seed
and bone jangling light
(long before
and long before
child me stamp sang
in sunday school
no turning back
praise the lord
no turning back
and we were taught
and schooled and prayed upon
even then
i knew an empty promise
when i tasted one
and this progress that drew closer
one supermarket
one strip-mall
one marble mall-temple for our new gods
was never progress at all)
and i wanted to write the love song –
sing branches and trunks to the sky
taste the words to live by
like river pebble in my mouth –
but there was no telling
tree from sky from earth from hand,
no telling the broken from the whole.
late afternoon and forest blew cool
my words were no more
than breath through our leaves.
For Brendan at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: A TIMBERED CHOIR https://earthweal.com/2021/09/20/earthweal-weekly-challenge-a-timbered-choir/
fresh poetry 
This is so lovely, Lindi. I especially love your closing stanza. I think, with this poem, that you DID write that love song, sang branches and trunks to the sky. Just beautiful.
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Thanks Sherry.
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Progress has been an empty word for a long time. I hope it is running out of steam (and oil and coal).
Your witness is always nourishing. (K)
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I do hope so too.
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We are all so small, only are hearts are huge in the wind through the trees. Fire season approaching is of such greater dread nowadays, the awful shadow of progress. What can we do but sing our small songs and love what we can?
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This is beautiful and so, so sad. We all feel so powerless against that march of the new gods. My only hope is that if there are new gods, perhaps there will be newer ones who don’t see progress the same way.
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this echoes the melancholy of autumn even as you enter spring. ~
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This poem has such a resounding echo!
‘one supermarket
one strip-mall
one marble mall-temple for our new gods
was never progress at all)’
I often think of shopping centres as ‘cathedrals of commercialism.’ We need to abandon these false gods!
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Perhaps the first step in abandoning them is owning them as ours in the first place. I think maybe when when we know why we made them we will be more willing to replace them.
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