The Language of Trees

I have loved trees since I was old enough to swing from a branch, or sit under their shade, or climb them.  Finally I completed my collection of poems about trees, which are published through Lulu.com, complete with color photos.  I include two excerpts here to give readers a glimpse of what is in the collection.  First is my foreword and then a picture and poem from the season of summer, for a quick snapshot.  The book itself can be found on www.lulu.com and will soon also be available on www.amazon.com and some other sites.

       

Prologue

            There is no better time to study trees than now.  Trees live in the moment, drawing upon the earth for sustenance, from the air, from the sun, from the rain.  I have always loved trees.  As a child, I sized up every tree in sight on the basis of whether it was a good “climbing tree” or not.  When we lived in Honolulu, I loved to play on and under those wonderful Banyan trees.  They constituted a playground in themselves, touched by mystery and nurture.

            My life has always sought the solace of trees:  a hideaway where I could read without interference, a place for a swing, the shade from a Southern summer sun, the scattering of fruits, pecans, walnuts and chestnuts out of their abundance, the statuesque quality in a landscape of snow.  When one must be cut down in the interest of commerce and street building, I weep.  When others fall after buffering by storms, I grieve.  When a forest is felled for its lumber and commercial value, I am enraged.  Trees belong to this planet as gifts to honor and care for, to increase our connections to the world around us.  I give thanks daily for the trees I have met, known intimately, played under and in, blessed for their shelter of birds and squirrels and cicadas.  This collection is my thanksgiving to the trees of this world.

Backyard in Summer

Trees rise from our lower lot, towers

of poplar and beech wrapped round by ivy.

Their arbor of leaves screens the sky 

so that I catch only glimpses of blue or gray

through weavings of green.                           

Today the leafy sky becomes my pleasure,

while below, all in this slight forest have purpose:                  

squirrel and crow, even black snake

find highways along bark and root

below the abundant quilt of August.                                      

From the dead branch reaching over wood stairs

dangles a clay pot, nesting place for wrens.

At night, Venus travels above this summer canopy

with Polaris, Cygnus, Pegasus, to rise

in the darkening sky, summoned by the spin

of our earth home, curtained by summer.