Under The Canopy Poem by peauladd huy

~ a wind off the Cardamom is rushing down towards the foothills

At moments like this, when aftermaths
can no longer heal, when quiet is long
waiting to happen, when morning birds perch
forgetting their songs, and when shadows
wake up in bright streamers

triggered in the canopy, I have to believe
nature is never truly unkind, that
goodness still exists
within each rotting heart & that there is some tiny
constituent representing something bigger than any of us

in goodness & truth. Tell me
am I not a fool shortchanging myself?
Am I reading into things
possible never for us? Sometimes, I wish for knowledge
to speak to me in simple words

breaking down this emptiness into images
I can hold onto. Is there still hope amongst our
kind to undo the shame before settling?
I don’t wish for great wings
struggling at the glass door.

Tell me, what is the word amongst the gathering tribes?
Now, that you are seeing from the other side,
O forest keeper, emissary of our heartwoods,
what have they’d in mind? Has the Dalbergia tribe
forgiven us for losing their forest prince? What is for us

to learn from this experience?
We know the Aquilaria are not pleased
for having their hearts exposed while riddled with parasites.
The Santalum despise us for smelling like them.
The Hopea hope we sink in our Koki boats. & the Xylia wish for eternal

creaking in our Sokram floorboards.
Should we live with what’s always weeping? What’s giving in
to suffering & despair & loss always
be a pre-requisite to rare beauty
when body meets earth eventually? It is inevitable

that greed feeds on the neglected & that the neglected
scurry off with cheap reasons to murder
a righteous on protected grounds? Shouldn’t there be an honored
inner sanctum other than privileged greed reaps twice the fathers & the children
left roaming the temple grounds for something other than here?

Did you know the Pterocarpus still have their poor hearts
set on the Padauk in converting us through musical instruments?
& the Intsia still have the Merbau to bridge between adjustment & attitude,
between giving & carrying off as thefts, between caretakers & poachers of the preserved, between fellers & whoring wood lords.

What the others do I can no longer be
sure of myself. I am not here to stack
offenses against the ones who did wrong.
We are all wrong; we are complicit to some degree.
Honestly, we are a village failing our children

one after another. Early evening’s fireflies
gather at the dead stumps
slung his hammock a year ago.
Sometimes, we all wish we could
put the dead back into the living field.

Some image is hard
to dream out & some small voices
are hard to tug loose
from the shirttails. Our children
deserve at least this: to see

& touch the leaves
& flowers & fruits
before seeds are buried again.
& then again, how can we deny
each death its time?