Manzanita, little apple.
We see in you time and turmoil.
We see Eve’s long widowhood shaped
by harsh desert wind. We feel
the peril of walking the path
of broken ghosts, lost clans
see menace trimming the stiff limbs
of these beribboned trees:
wool-tuft texture, hag-skin bark.
We smell the warmth of greening threat.
But what, what threat?
And how to name, read, translate
the dread and loss we see
within that awesome
wrench of tree?
The wind, you know,
only sees her beauty
and is humbled by the ways
her twists embrace and make
the sightless wind more manifest.
C. R. Resetarits has had work recently in December, Southern Humanities Review, and Native Voices: Indigenous American Poetry, Craft and Conversations (Tupelo Press). New work late summer and fall in Modern Language Studies and Confrontation. She lives in Faulkner-riddled Oxford, Mississippi. crresetarits.wordpress.com
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