Disappearing Birch Forest
When I was a child,
I thought the birches I knew
grew on a mountain cliff
when I walked the deer trail
across its steep flanks.
I meandered alone
in fields and woods.
I’d look through leaf lace
into a drop studded
with lollipop stick trunks,
walk the hillside trail
straight across at a slow rise.
I learned that a slant path
can be the best way to go,
a lesson I try to remember
when writing poems.
When I return as an adult,
the forest has vanished,
swallowed by a sandpit.
When I’m Gone
These words are for you, granddaughter,
a treasure map of history and myth
about a family that no longer exists
in a world that has changed to something different
you won’t remember the stories I didn’t tell you
or the wildflowers I never grew in the garden
or the jars or jam and fruit I never canned
or the pines, gulls and waves at Stella Maris
when it was a retreat house before you were born
when I still remembered family stories
when I still had four brothers and four sisters
when I still fed nectar to hummingbirds
when I still kept a wildflower garden,
grew vegetables, berry bushes and fruit trees
I share these conversations with you that I recorded
when Mother Earth held me on her lap
Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania, a landscape that inhabits her writing. A retired library director, she writes short forms and short poems. Current work appears in Haibun Today, Rat’s Ass Review, Halcyon Days, I Am Not A Silent Poet and Soul-Lit. Poetry website: ingridbruck.com