A Fallen Yew

BY SALVATORE DIFALCO

I passed it unawares, others fallen, rotting
with perfume pervasive as the gnats
forming my halo and feasting delicately
on the membranes of my ears and eyes.

I knew the yew had metaphorical heft,
but failed to remember the sources.
Nowadays memory fails faster than legs
which also begin to falter halfway.

Nothing prepares you for death—
isn’t quite true. We know in our bones
that shadow from the hill will only
lengthen as the day wears on.

Yew, I never knew you in your glory,
having never walked these woods.
But is it a crime to feel no sadness
for a tree that perished naturally?

I walk toward a clearing, heavy
in my heart and heavier-legged
as I seek something more than
communion with a natural death.

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and storyteller. His work appears in a number of print and online journals.