Swamp Ash

Trees long loved for traits
Of their grain you would
Not think worth the work—

Light, soft, weak, and low,
Not dense—just the right
Board to shred steel strings

Wired to huge, black amps—
Are on their way out.
The floods are too high,

The nights too warm now
To kill the strange eggs
Of the green bark bugs.

The axe made of ash
Will be gone soon, too.
No more gods. They broke,

Those mean old banks—prayer
Won’t do you no good.
All last night wind moaned.