Mest lästa ▸
Dave Bonta
Trillium undulatum
Painted lady, late riser,
you rush out of the ground,
get pollinated on the fly
sometimes before
your petals fully open,
so that within one day
after emergence they are
already turning translucent,
your pink makeup fading
as the light-flooded
forest dims to leaf-out.
But that’s your true
element, isn’t it?
The shade.
Even unpollinated
Did you know?
They are cutting down the old trees
Up in the cantonment area
So that you can ride
In contentment
Cocooned in your air-conditioned car.
You wouldn’t know, sir
That I have walked under their shade
For the last forty years
On and off, not everyday
On and off, light to shade
From hot to cool
From peace to strife and back
Among the old trees
As they stretched out their branches
To protect me from the glare
I saw him as he went
With merry voice and eye.
I met him when he came
Back, tired but the same--
The same clear voice, bright eye,
Merry laugh, quick reply.
And now, if I but look
Unnoting at a book,
Or from the window stare
At dark woods newly bare,
I see that shining eye,
The same as when he went:
--But whose is the low sigh,
The cold shade o'er me bent?