Linda Parsons Marion
Where the Wounds Are
God enters through the wound.
C. G. Jung
Where the trees came down, lunarscaping
the backyard, here a mouth, there cheekbones,
the mower bumps along new ground, blasts
grass seed, topsoil sequined as mica.
The yard's gaped mouth and cheekbones,
everything wanton and unwanted rushes to litter
the shocked surface—snakeberries, plantain,
clover, dill jumping the garden gate.
The unwanted and wanton rush into what earth
calls opportunity, what I call wound, sunken
grave as remembrance. Cleaved by force of windfall,
gashes in its wake slow to heal, scarred remains.
Wounded, new ground seizes opportunities
to congregate, no less holy or greening, to summon
and be filled, stunned by sun's grace. Remembrance
gathers remains—there, where the trees came down.