Have you seen a tree fall?
I saw a tree fall in a wood once,
as in once upon a time, as in once.
I was young and with my father
in the wood, the wood where we
walked most Sundays. All those walks
falling into each other, all those Sundays
through beech and oak and down
the side of the old quarry, up to the ridge,
the same Sunday walk, the comfort
of ritual, but this one standout moment,
separated from all the others, that closed
like a fan, into a stiff, held memory
of a Sunday walk to be considered.
That tree, like a closed ebony fan,
was dark and hard and to be considered,
because the tree became a symbol
with its own secret language, that could
upbraid me for my semiotic ignorance,
that could rap me on the head if I didn’t spot
the hole, the missing sticks, the deep crack,
the way leaf was lost from the outside in.
But I was young, I understood none of this.
I stood and watched the tree fan out
and fall, take up all the space in the wood
for one rushing moment, sweeping away sky,
sweeping away the figure of my father,
sweeping every Sunday walk into once
upon a time, the way a fan drawn across
eyes means, I am sorry, and placed behind
the head means, don’t forget me.