Nymphs

The first time I went to the tree was to knock on wood. No one answered. The second time I knocked, the tree, wild in the wind, leaned toward me. No bad luck arrived. I went back and knocked again to tell the tree my good fortune was not forgotten. • Chiseling a nest hole in dead wood, a woodpecker drills a downed log. The rapid blows of its beak hammer me awake each night for a week. • Beneath the bark nymphs live like hidden charms people leave in drawers or cupboards for protection. I believe in tree spirits who embed their souls in this wood. • They are not immortal • but their lives, says Hesiod, are ten times that of the phoenix, who outlives nine ravens, who outlive three glorious stags, who outlive four crows, who outlive nine generations of aged men. • Beyond the shelter- belts of farmsteads, found deep in poplar woods and birch thickets, a flicker assaults a tree as nymphs retreat into the tunneled ruts of the trunk. The bird chips away without distraction. Its showy red patch, a splash of blood, catches my eye. • Tender wing buds of an immature insect are like the rising nipples of a young girl. The temptation to slide a finger over the small mounds... • Fly away! • The nymphs are free, changed forever as they brush the pond's scalloped edge. What part of me they take away will settle some day. Deep in dying wood. I will be there when you knock.