The Trees of South Bristol
No one comes to see
The trees of early spring--
No cars, no buses,
No cameras, poised and ready.
Quiet grays and browns
Salute the day's early mist,
As it rises in resonance
With early Chinese painting.
Is this a death time,
When hoped-for green
Is still a dream?
What if this year
There is no yield,
No blossom, no unfolding,
No gold of autumn.
What, then, do we say
To the trees of South Bristol?
"Grow, for we demand it."
Perhaps we need to travel
The way of silent grace,
And dare to embrace the splendor
Of trees without leaves.
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