He introduces me to his 20-acre stand
tree-by-tree—slaps each
December oak, ash, maple, birch
that single-arm embrace
a proud father pitches his son
man-to-man. Unlike us kids,
off on our own, this flesh and blood
timber he adopts and fosters
cannot stray. Without him
their futures turn to grapple,
rip, varnish and grain. Two weeks
after his heart says give,
my father pleads
they’re yours, promise
you’ll keep them standing.

And from that last word standing
all our anguish echoes within
the tangled canopy, aching
harder, harder, twisting
back to kindergarten—crayon
scribble of winter limbs, my uncle
Stanley, oldest of 14, recounting
for me the night their ma died,
her last words to keep
the kids together, and the home
vigil: children candelabrummed

along the casket, the old man
and neighbors drunk on moon
bickering and bidding in Pole
who’d take in what kid.

This one, dad announces—
hand against bark, sinew
to sinew, massive wrist shaven
to fit hospital I.D., to girdle him
vincible, his heart, tree heart,
defenseless, no mater how
stalwart the armor to reaper,
dollar and saw—this one is 80-year-old
northern pin oak. I clap
hold of its trunk and imagine
beneath thick lids of burls
my father’s eyes, the warmth
when I yell welcome. . .welcome
to our family, that long-awaited echo
standing with these trees for good.

From The Make-Up Of Ice (The University of Georgia Press, 1984)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.