It came on the wind, a silent foe
So very many years ago
From many miles across the sea
Where it had spent eternity
In new and better places, where,
On freely taking to the air
It made itself a fine abode,
It radiated from the node
Without conflict, spreading near
A score of miles with every year.

It prospered well and held its ground
But no control was ever found
And no solution. One that might
Eradicate this parasite
Before its wrath was fully wrought
Before its lethal blow was brought.

It set its roots, and set them firm
On hillside, valley, col and berm,
In parks, on homesteads, and in woods.
And one of our most valued goods,
The timber, strong and handsome-grained,
So cherished, and so long retained
From one great hardwood, now assumed
A finite resource, truly doomed.
And what of creatures, what of these
Who made their homes among the trees
Where lofty branches held the fruits
Of their survival, and the roots
Bore forth the mighty bole to wield
A bumper crop for every yield?

Alas! What losses did incur
The mighty bearer of the bur!

Yet some poor souls, by fate or chance,
Stand frozen in their battle stance.
Now stark with pallor, stripped of limbs
They loft and sway on weather's whims,
Until one day, the winds will blow,
And clinging ice, and drifting snow
Shall cleave the snags from off their roots
And maybe someday, little shoots
Will sprout from those old roots and then
Will die and sprout and die again.

Beneath each page of "past" upturned,
There lies a moral to be learned.
That moral being, simply put,
A certain order is afoot
That Nature clearly must obey.
The past cannot be cast away.
But somewhere in some cyclic stage
The answer lies, however vague
As to the cure so badly sought.
We must all bear in mind this thought:
That whether soon, with human help,
Or later on, by time itself,
The latent cure indeed exists.
And will be found, if we persist.

I'll proudly join the great crusade
To hasten to the Chestnut's aid
And seek the cure that will alone
Restore it to its rightful throne!

by Krista Jackson Butterfield
Poem copyright by Krista Jackson Butterfield

(Formerly an electrical engineer, and a member of the CT chapter of TACF, now lives in western Maine as a ranger for the US Forest Service. She and her husband grow 45 American chestnut seedlings on their 94 acres.)