Tree poem

All That Time
by May Stevenson


I saw two trees embracing.
One leaned on the other
as if to throw her down
But she was the upright one.
Since their twin youth, maybe she
had been pulling him toward her
all that time.

and finally almost uprooted him.
He was the thin, dry, insecure one,
the most wind-warped, you could see.
And where their tops tangled
it looked like he was crying
on her shoulder.
On the other hand, maybe he

had been trying to weaken her,
break her, or at least
make her bend
over backwards for him
just a little bit.
And all that time
she was standing up to him

the best she could.
She was the stubborn,
the straightest one, that's a fact.
But he had been willing
to change himself-
even if it was for the worse-
all that time.

At the top they looked like one
tree, where they were embracing.
It was plain they'd be
always together.

Too late now to part.
When the wind blew, you could hear
them rubbing on each other.

Taken from Good Poems for Hard Times by Garrison Keillor

Lonesome Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

I wake to the sound
Whippoorwill

Achingly lonely
Whippoorwill

Calling at midnight
Whippoorwill

I join his vigil
Whippoorwill

But none comes, to be
Whippoorwill

With him or with me
Whippoorwill

It is too soon.

Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

Susurrant Trees

The trees whisper of spring’s approach
While small birds sit amidst the conversation
Cocking their heads this way and that.
Listening.
Listening
To the creak of old wood
And the faint stirring of new life
Drawn from icy spring rain
And softened soil.

The birds are impatiently interrupting
The tentative susurration of the trees
With twitters and joyous song
Singing.
Singing
With the sway of branches
In bracing winds.
For they too have heard it in the air
And seen it in the strengthening light.

But the trees pay them no heed
For they are tenderly exploring
Winter’s shearing with tentative pulses
Flexing.
Flexing
Winter’s frozen toes in warm patches of sunlight.
And contemplating swollen buds for yet another season
of light and leaf and dancing shadows.

Early Spring Sunrise

As the creeping dawn paled the inky blackness
to shades of gray;
from the east slivers of pale yellow
created Scherenschnitte of the bare trees.
The sun strengthened to light the long layers
of clouds with peach, orange, fuchsia.
High above in the bright pink sky
a river of birds flowed north.
Some still strong after a long night’s flight,
others straggled to keep up.
Rest was just beyond the horizon.

More used to appreciating sunset than sunrise, the drive to work was an unaccustomed pleasure.

Read to me

"Then Beo was king in that Danish castle
Shild’s son ruling as long as his father
And as loved, a famous lord of men.
And he in turn gave his people a son,
The great Healfdane, a fierce fighter
Who led the Danes to the end of his long
Life and left them four children,"

I first tried reading Beowulf when I was in my early 20s. Being a voracious reader, I assumed I would have no problem, however difficult, awkward or epic the story. At that point I had already read most of the classics, including The Iliad, The Odyssey and other long involved epic tales.

I was wrong. I could not find a rhythm in the reading. I would crawl into bed at night and struggle for an hour before putting it aside.

One night, I heaved a sigh and slapped the thin paperback on the nightstand. My boyfriend at that time looked up from reading the Canterbury Tales (he was in an Old English class) and asked what the problem was. I cursed Beowulf and its unknown author.

Beowulf is meant to be listened to, not read silently, he told me. He picked up Beowulf, opened the book to the beginning and began to read aloud.

What a difference!

As I listened to the tale of kings, and battle, monsters and glory I was one with all the generations of people who have listened to the telling of Beowulf. We finished the poem in two nights. When the story was done, I heaved a sigh of contentment for a story well told but sad that it was over.

On my way to the airport last week, I noticed that there is a movie version of Beowulf in the theaters. The name brought me back to 2 cold winter nights many years ago when I finally understood the power of the spoken word. I intend to see the movie; it is getting good reviews. I am thrilled that such a long-standing classic is being introduced to yet another generation of people in a way that they can appreciate.

Golden leaf

A Live Oak Leaf

How marvelous this bit of green
I hold, and soon shall throw away!
Its subtle veins, its vivid sheen,
Seem fragments of a god's array.

In all the hidden toil of earth,
Which is the more laborious part-
To rear the oak's enormous girth,
Or shape its leaves with poignant art?

Clark Ashton Smith

September

The light has changed.
Even with the visor down
The sun’s dying embers burn my eyes as I drive into the west.
The creep of darkness has begun
and will not end until the brittle cold of the longest night.

Leaves are changing
Sun kissed touches of gold and red decorate the hillsides
Glowing in the long light,
Splotches of nature’s paint that will soon run together
then turn brown and fall away.

There is a chill in the air
The kitchen floor is cold now in the morning.
When I skip across it in my robe longing for the first sip of morning’s heat
I am still warm from the comforter pulled up in the night
My bare feet are icy.


Change is good, it is inevitable.
It comes on so slowly that we do not notice
until
one day it seems to have happened over night.

Spring

I have been reading Garrison Keillor's book, Good Poems for Hard Times. I offer you a poem.

Spring by Mary Oliver

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlesness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue

like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees
Whatever else

My life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her--
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.