Fallen Elm

Whoever had felled the elm Had not cut it clean at all, For it bled till falling snow Healed the wound with a silver caul.

The trunk, enameled in ice Veined white as a crystal sheath, Lay stiff in face of the wind's New voice through its winter teeth.

Whatever it was that warmed The elm to the roots in soil Was as merciful as spring Warming the heart of the bole

Bound to the stump by a tongue Of wood like a navel cord, A mother sustaining a child In its embryonic world

Until it could breach the wall, And did,—as each upright stem, Leaves in the bud, burst green From the fallen wine-glass elm.