Shelterbelt

The mind does not self-shelter,

weaponless in a ring of

coal-dark heaven housing a

box of ice, or else no one

polices the relentless

train of the summer sun, its

needling poison. Here, I

say, is progress: an end to

grief in the sightline. The storm’s

rough reel stalls at my land’s

margins; I train that wolf, wind,

to wrap around my smooth black

sky, my home’s superstructure,

with rows of trees snow-watered:

the sumac, fall-red still, flames

against juniper’s dog-strong

green, its anchor to the elms’

yellow screen. We slipped saplings

from the flood plain of the Jim

River, planted them along

our homestead lines as our soil

blew away from our land of

mammal warmth. There were also

psychological effects

of “treeless” country, which the

homesteaders found “unsettling.”

This is the time when we are

mortal and can enjoy that

pain, a field, ends—isn’t

unremitting heaven, yet.