What kind of times are these by adrienne rich

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 meeting-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

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, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, 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's necessary

• to talk about trees.
  
  This poem “isn’t a Russian poem.” So how is it, then, a poem about America today? Write your responses in your journal.
  What and who is disappearing into the shadows? Write a poem beginning with the words, “They are disappearing…” See where it leads you?
  Why is it necessary to talk about about the trees, in order that we listen. Explore this connection to trees in your own words and ways.