Sure Sign of Spring
Sure sign of spring
through bare trees heading south
jets vapor trail.
Poems on the topic: tree
Poems on the topic “tree” on Poets.by.
Decembering
All that is left is the Granny Smiths; she
Loves that they cling to their shivered tree,
Leaves long gone. Even the hens have left off
Trusting the sky to toss them sugar, and
Have retired to their tractor, pecking
At storebought feed in its styrene bin.
The winds whistle through, rasping
Ink-black twigs together; the apples nod and
Stub their green bellies. She
Lifts ten or so down, as if they were
Each one of her own breasts, tenderly
Filling her small basket. In the kitchen
They will sit shyly waiting their turn:
It is the season for other foods; in
Stoneware bowls, nuts and citrus
Talk among themselves in distant tongues.
What to Do About Trees
What to do about trees, for she had room:
Have an orchard. But isn't that thinking
About twenty years ahead? So she went
To the tool room for her spade in November;
Took that and four apple saplings down
Onto the flat by the road, and began. Years she
Did this, working up and around the rise
Of better ground. Pears, cherries, quince
Abounded, but the plums got blight, and had to
Be started over. She was too old to harvest
Or even get shade from nut trees, they're so slow;
Uncoupling crop from objective, she anyway set
Them out, along with the rest. Last, she
Thought of mulberries. The hens could have
Really used those. Oh, well. She ordered,
Even this late in life, and planted once more,
Learning to Walk
It's not that she hasn't been doing this all along:
She'd walked to school as yellow lozenges, oozing screams,
fumed past her along hot asphalt. She'd splashed the creek,
anxious for a path, then built it herself, kenning
to use her father's axe without lost blood.
She'd walked from Springer Mountain north, chatting in
her offhand way with bears, a big cat and a ghost.
She'd walked the halls of academia and then the hills,
big ones, bringing seedling trees to snug up to
the raw stumps of firs machines had eaten.
She'd walked to a job for decades, block after block
of homes with eyes of black glass inching
past her tired, angry shoes. Now, late in life,
she keeps a small dog bereft by her parents’
Ten
All my life
I have been half deaf.
In my room
I steam rice, make tea,
dress myself
to meet people.
I make them tell me
their names twice,
then help them as I can.
Though I play no lute,
I hope they will feel
as though hearing one
lilt among trees.
Birch
Birch tree, you remind me
Of a room filled with breathing,
The sway and whisper of love.
She slips off her shoes;
Unzips her skirt; arms raised,
Unclasps an earring, and the other.
Just so the sallow trunk
Divides, and the branches
Are pale and smooth.
Thirty-One
Snow plumed straight down
like river foam.
I knew where
the trees were,
loading themselves
with white —
but could not
find them.
Twenty-Six
As I pass through,
I may touch ash,
Hemlock, fir,
spruce, alder,
maple, cedar,
madrone, yew,
willow, dark
myrtle, but —
not you.
Sixteen
We plant fir
seedlings across
icy slopes.
Trees yet standing
scrape and worry
in moaning winds,
showering us with
bark and cones.
Will I see you
again, should one
of these fall
while my back
is bent?
Aviary
The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the
largest of a pair of Maples in the front yard so he settles
for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls
himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning
his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each
branch like the back of his hand, every step, every
handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.
As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more
flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the
wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of
the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop
climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two
branches and settles in.
February
The frost under our feet
doesn’t cough that loudly,
yet it sounds more like
an old man’s mumbling.
The wind is not breathing
fast and chilly like last month.
Undressed trees
do not look that pretty
yet they seem shy, hiding within
thousands of pregnant buds.
It’s February,
the daylight
has emerged victorious
from its great battle
against dark.
Trees and Us
Trees are shy brides.
During spring
they wear their clothing
in the dawn of the day
before we awake.
During autumn
they take off their green dresses
late at night
while we are still asleep.
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