SPIRITS IN THE BACKYARD
KEITH TAYLOR
“My tree stays tree.”
-Sylvia Plath
When the oaks came down
in our mini tornado
and after the chopping
and hauling away were over,
the long-lived dryads
must have had no place
to roost, not that they needed
a place after a couple
of centuries nested in one tree.
For a while they were comfortable
enough shimmering through gardens
or forests, barely perceptible
in the far corner of my eye.