There's a place between two stands of trees

Where the grass grows uphill

And the old revolutionary road

Breaks off into shadows near a meetiing-house

Abandoned by the persecuted

Who disappeared into those shadows

I've walked there picking mushrooms

At the edge of dread

But don't be fooled because this isn't a Russian poem

This is not somewhere else but here

Our country moving closer

To its own truth and dread

Its own ways of making people disappear

I won't tell you where the place is

The dark mesh of the woods

Meeting the unmarked strip of light

Ghost-ridden crossroads and leafmold paradise

I know already who want to buy it

Sell it and make it disappear

And I won't tell you where it is

So why do I tell you anything?

Because you still listen

Because in times like these

To have you listen at all

It is necessary

To talk about trees.

DARK FIELDS OF THE REPUBLIC

Adrienne Rich