New Poem

. . .
TREES
. . .
Sycamores impart
small, sparse shadows
to grass and fields.
Leaves claim a space
that is not simply
a change in hue
or the absence of something.
. . .
All things bloom, bear fruit, and die:
millenial yews, Methuselah,
the self-important
and the poor in spirit.
Death of the giant yew is slow;
there is no single moment when one says,
'tis finished.
A tall and ancient beech wrinkles
like a woman who has seen much,
who holds her gains and losses
in her lines and folds of skin.
I call it wisdom.
. . .
Sometimes you hear the gray birch
hiss and moan against the hurricane,
bows bent to earth;
sometimes you see the willow tree
fall quickly, at the first hint
of the passing eye.
. . .
For me, I hold no wisdom,
except a few good changes
in a weary world.
And I'd rather hear a dozen fighting trees
Than the clang of money changing hands,
--any day.
. . .