Bailing Out-A Poem for the 1970s

Whose woods these are I think I know ... The landings had gone wrong; white silk, like shrouds, covered the woods. The trees had trapped the flimsy fabric in their web—everywhere the harnessed bodies hung—helpless, treading air like water. We thought to float down easily—a simple thing like coming home: feet first, a welcome from the waiting fields, a gentle fall in clover. We hadn’t counted on this wilderness, the gusts of wind that took us over; we were surprised by the tenacity of branching wood, its reach, and how impenetrable the place we left, and thought we knew, could be. Sometimes now, as we sway, unwilling pendulums that mark the time, we still can dream someone will come and cut us down. There is nothing here but words, the calls we try the dark with—hoping for a human ear, response, a rescue party. But all we hear is other voices like our own, other bodies tangled in the lines, the repetition of a cry from every tree: I can’t help you, help me.