Poetry: Call Richard Webb
Before the wind takes it. Before the voles make a home of it.
Or a trunk-borer.
Before the orioles weave one nest too many.
Or later, in December, the snow weighs heavily for the thundering branch
to go under.
And looking ahead again
to next summer, the tail end
of a hurricane, whipping the leaves into their fury and filling the choked-up
Before anything else can happen. Call Richard and his webb
His hundred-foot mechanical ladder. His throne
of a bucket.
He rises in.
Opening a hole to the sky. Dropping the dead,
the queen box-elder.
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall
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