Underwoods

Cuffed forests, cut-over
Woods, coppiced, second-growth,

Pretty much the only
Kind of forest you’ve known.

You’ve visited a few
Stands of uncut old growth,

Maples in Newfoundland,
White pines in Idaho,

Magnolias in Georgia,
Sequoias in Cali,

And so forth, plus the odd
Original giant

Like Tane Mahuta,
Surrounded by young woods.

Postage-stamp sized patches,
The primeval, mostly.

You like a wooly copse,
Bosky, brushwood thicket,

The feral scruffiness
Of trees that keep trying

And trying to come back.
Weirdly, you also like

Monotonous tree farms,
Uniform rows and rows

Of some single species,
Usually conifer,

The bare alleys between
The trunks. But it’s copses

You grew up with, copses
And scrub woods where the trees

Aren’t established enough
To lord it over brush.

If humans leave any
Trees after humans leave,

The forests will grow grand
Again, but for right now

Every copse reminds you
Of those furtive mammals

Waiting for dinosaurs
To die off and make room.

They’re eyeing you, those trees,
Those spindly-trunked halfweeds.