2 Poems
Paul Ilechko The Dying of the Trees The metaphor too blatant, dying trees prefiguring a death, and yet, it happened. A corollary: the rock-hard soil, the drilling of holes for planting. Compare this to the rigidity of hearts, or heads, as days are counted down. A new house signifies, perhaps, a new beginning. A large house, lost amidst the barren newness, needing trees. Planted: elms and maples, birch and dogwood. Out from nothing, turning weedy earth to woodland. One summer past, a swarm. Landing in a tree that soon will die, Pausing briefly, moving on. Looking for a place to build their queen a home. Expand the metaphor -- the bees illuminate the need for life to stay in motion. A house for sale, all while the plants are failing. Grown with struggle in red clay soil. Many hours spent watering; wasted hours, used in vain. Watch as they all succumb. Watch, as we succumb. Purple Days of Winter The tar in winter sunlight, appearing to seep through in reflecting purple pools at places where the chip-sealed surface is most worn. Purple too, the shadows cast by trees, tall and structural in their February nakedness, lining these minor roads on which I ride. Everything seems violet today -- a brilliant world, colors saturated and full, crisscrossing the low hills that line the river valley. Saturated, until I turn for home, heading south into the sun. For now, the road has lost its hue, winding silver across the broad terrain, gleaming in its monochrome. |
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About the Author: Paul Ilechko is the author of the chapbook “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press, 2018). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Stickman Review, Mocking Heart Review, Gravel, Dash, Slag Review, Oberon, Dime Show Review, Saint Katherine Review and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily. He lives in Lambertville, NJ, with his girlfriend and a cat.