Black pit
charred
and split
open at
the birch’s
Base
parted like
plundered
legs left
open
broken
black.
The land
stripped
once of
all green
grows again
green.
The tree
wound
and all
reaches roots
under
Concrete;
sucks at
ashes; sips
from pools
of death;
and still
grows.
-Alex C. Eisenberg
Alex C. Eisenberg grew up a child of the Pacific Northwest, but her ancestors are from Eastern Europe. A gardener, grief worker, and rite of passage guide, she tends to traverse the liminal space, between the upper-world and the underworld, drawing on and giving into the creative energy of the dying-birthing in-between. You can find more of her poems in River Heron Review and About Place Journal.