she told me the earth loves us, anne haven mcdonnell

She said it softly, without a need 

for conviction or romance.

After everything? I asked, ashamed. 


That's not the kind of love she meant.

She walked through a field of gray 

beetle-pored pine, snags branching


like polished bone. I forget sometimes

how trees look at me with the generosity 

of water. I forget all the other 


breath I'm breathing in. 

Today I learned that trees can't sleep

with our lights on. That they knit 


a forest in their language, their feelings. 

This is not a metaphor. 

Like seeing a face across a crowd, 

we are learning all the old things, 

newly shined and numbered. 

I'm always looking 


for a place to lie down

and cry. Green, mossed, shaded. 

Or rock-quiet, empty. Somewhere


to hush and start over. 

I put on my antlers in the sun. 

I walk through the dark gates of the trees. 


Grief waters my footsteps, leaving 

a trail that glistens. 

Copyright © 2020 by Anne Haven McDonnell. From All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis (One World, 2020) edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson. Used with the permission of the editors.

• How do you experience Earth’s love for you, even “after everything.” Journal your reflections.

• Begin a poem with the words, “I forget sometimes….” What have you forgotten about your relationship with the more-than-human world?

• What places in nature offer you peace—are they green, mossed, shaded, or rock-quiet, empty. Write a character sketch of one of them. After it’s finished, ask: What does this place teach me about what I require to find myself again?