The trees in river country know the wind,
and how to bend in winter blasts. They hold
snow and take the water. They change color—
as the leaves of maples turn, so too
a sister to her brother.
There are deep roots in a certain field, grown up
on our name past—fed by ashes of Cedar.
What wounds we’ve had will bear true grain,
but you and I will not be felled
by spade or tractor chain.
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To read another LONNOL Month poem by Sarah Dunster, go here.
Wilderness Interface Zone 