Going north to Virginia
The autumn trees rust into winter.
Rich browns and umbers sooth our eyes,
Ribbons of gold ripple along ridges,
Veins of poplar among the oaks.
I ask if any of Jefferson’s trees survive.
The last was cut just last year,
A massive hollow of bark remains.
Before the house a gracious linden
Kneels to her guests, her limbs extending,
Her elbows buried in Jefferson’s dirt.
His trees are extensive, confusing,
Randolphs and Hemmings running
Along passageways, tripping up stairs.
What kind of man puts his bed inside the wall
Between two rooms?
Going south the colors were duller,
A disappointment of grey.
Any flames of orange, of genius radiance,
Lost in mist and time.
October 30, 2009
Copyright by author