Oh, but the trees in springtime (poem)

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(Photo by Kevin Young)

 

oh, but the trees in springtime

when the bud first opens and litters the ground with it’s remains

and the tender petals emerge, fresh and palest green

upon the face of a stately tree that bore the winter snow

with ease – slumbering, white powder on black branches

alighted occasionally by a visiting blue jay or cardinal, red

awakened by the golden kiss of heaven – all spring long it stretches itself upward and onward in a slow, luxurious yawn

drinking heavily from the sky turned black with terrible rumbles of thunder

the tender peddles flip to expose their bellies while the world and the cardinals shiver in fright

Oh, but the trees in springtime

when fat fisted children reach into the grass the fall before

and pull back two or three winged seeds

from Maple trees and scream in delight as they helicopter

to the ground

next to the trunk older than their mother’s mother

and just as watchful

now remembers why she loved those children as children of her own sprout up just outside the reach of her canopy

Oh, but the trees in springtime

but the liveoak seems almost like a god of ancient times

with a base as wider than a man can embrace

with tree limbs stronger than the river flows

who – in the fall drops acorns faster than squirrels can gather

the spirits within you can hear snort with mirth – when one of their artillery happens to fall on someone’s head

they don’t call them Live Oak – for nothing

But oh, the trees in springtime

new leaves combined with the smell of the earth

new life as old creatures give away to new birth

promise a thousand days underneath the cool of their shade

is where I read my favorite book

and upon my shoulder and neck and side of my face

sunlight dappled touch kisses me every time the wind

run’s its fingers through the branches