Hemlock

This creek arched by hemlock
but named for chestnut, a tree
almost erased to history,
darkens from bark tannin
the farther you follow it
to the Lehigh River.
Light finds its way in between
by slight gestures of air
that move ferns and stir
wolf spiders back under rocks.
A hundred years ago
clear cutting opened
this mountainside to all
the light it could take,
let rain rob the land of topsoil
only a few hard saplings
could cling to.
An old tree that survived
the ax is rare as trout
in this mine acid brook, but
if I take my shoes off, walk
barefoot off the trail, I can feel
a century of soft needles
compressing like a carpet,
some sharp twigs ready
for campfire, arrow-headed
scales the color of snakes,
some smoke, to scent my shirt and jeans,
a whole history of take and retake
under every footfall.