I once prayed that this acre be the elm's home,
but my elms are dying, or dead. Today I dragged
almost the last torso to the back line
for mouse- and rabbit-shelter over the long winter.
Babe Ruth, whose decorum on formal occasions I sometimes
for the health of my soul have needed to emulate,
said near his end that termites had gotten into him,
and as I hauled elm bats away across autumn,
my right elbow and left knee ground out their lamentation.
But I am used to them by now, and almost
unafraid. Me and the Babe and the elms got
a season or so to go before we're nothing here
but sawdust. I root for them, as you will,
with me, if you know me at all. In elm bark we see
children on diamonds over which the sun passes,
and all our home runs in the cross-cut growth rings.
Line Drives
Edited by Brooke Horvath and Tim Wiles
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