The Lady Ironweed

Reinstein Woods

Bit by bit,

Torn apart,

She never wins

And retreats further into herself

Further into her woods.

Her domain was once vast and wild.

Now,

Sliced up and cut through,

Scarred with tar,

She has a small, dedicated space

That she protects with ruthless vigor.

A riot of wild roses everywhere in spring,

Their scent carried by the winds

With a small, secluded trail that only appears

When the roses are in bloom.

Fireflies and a shallow pond

With lovely magenta lilies in the summer.

Browns, yellows, oranges, and reds on her trees in autumn.

Moments of frost and ice,

Frozen spider webs,

And glittering snow

In winter.

Beaver, Heron, Robin.

Monarch Butterfly, Woodpecker, Carpenter Bee.

An ancient birch tree

Near death

Without a leaf

That towers above the ground.

A foreboding skeleton,

A warning,

A call to arms,

A tragic friend

Lost.

She sneaks through these woods

Averse to humans

Watching our every move.

An old crone,

She knows history.

She is wise

And knows this lot

Breaks its promises.

Suspicious,

Untrustworthy.

Are we redeemable?

She remembers fondly

The previous stewards,

The ones who respected the land

Who worked in relation with her.

Her lip curls when she sees the new breed

That walk her paths today.

Those who are responsible

For the dissection of the rest of her body.

She welcomes the vermin,

Plague-ridden ticks to her woods,

Numerous rats to the nearby dwellings.

Is it protection

Or revenge?

In late summer,

She can be found

Among a hidden patch of ironweed.

While the butterflies gather

On the vibrant purple flowers,

She weeps.

Every night,

Her heart breaks

To pieces.

She’s hardened

Formidable

Cut to the bone

To her roots

When will they learn?

She cries out to other spirits

Her tears fall to the cracked ground

Drenching the Earth

In her pain.

The Earth hears her anguish

And hurts, too.

When will they learn?