I would climb the tallest tree
I would jump onto the roof
I would fly like an eagle
I would then be aloof
I would fight like a warrior
I would soar and soar and soar
Some people I would entice
Some people I would bore
But I AM still soar
From climbing that freaking tree
One would see
Then it is just me
And I would be so freaking free
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dry twig snaps beneath my feet~
solemn punctuation
in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars.
the canopy exhales:
My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens,
my frost-etched rings remember drought,
my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse.
I tilt my head—a supplicant—
as bark breathes against my palm.
the oldest oak leans close whispering:
Child, stillness is the first consonant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dry twig snaps beneath my boot~
solemn punctuation
in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars.
the canopy exhales:
My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens;
my frost-etched rings remember drought;
my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse.
I tilt my head—a supplicant~
as bark breathes against my palm.
the oldest oak leans close:
Child, stillness is the first consonant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Roots write braille onto buried rocks.
Each ring a witness to droughts, floods~
observer of seasonal tides.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sap pulses slow as glaciers melt~
veins map stories untranslated
by wind, beetle, or human sighs.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Underground, fungal threads ignite
enzymatic cries for kinship~
networks flaring like neural stars.
Willows weep in the morning sun.
Sunrise cracks the bark; forest breathes
oxygenated confession~
We have always known how to wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath the cracked asphalt, silent roots weave stories in braille~
The maple tree taps Morse Code to the oak’s hollow chamber:
It’s midnight again. The starlings are nesting in my crown.
Look! The young boy carves his initials—the third time this summer.
The Loblolly Pines trade pollen like rumors on dry winds,
counting the passing decades in resin tears.
Douglas Fir shares the ladybug’s reticent gossip~
how the new highway will sever all of the mycelium’s threads.
One Cedar Elm tree remembers hearing axes. Her rings tighten.
Ancient Red Oak holds centuries of rain, drought, and fire.
At dawn, she hums to the young sapling her old, wise tune:
Bend. Grow. Drink the dew. Swallow the light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
roots drink midnight's spilled ink—
oak becomes a scribe.
maple bleeds October
into the river's cupped hands.
bare birch bones etch winter's
breath on the sky's parchment.
arboreal bird
seeks out the dead....
lightning killed great oak
an arboreal
green anole flashes red....
spring afternoon
arboreal -adj.- living in trees, relating to trees
anole -noun- a small mainly arboreal American lizard with a throat fan that (in the males) is typically brightly colored. Somewhat of a chameleon.
The woods have been gathering here
for long generations,
they have their own arboreal language,
a nocturnal patois
ground out by layers of ligneous skins.
The language is arcane,
it arrives from deep ancestral roots
incantations that turn slowly
into the kernels of long seeded words.
Deep into the night I listen,
then listen yet more
to the garrulous gossiping
of a creaky wooden bed
chatting to a talky timbered floor.
Only this;
And a joyousness
Remembering many beautiful, matriarch models
And so you came gently in forgiveness;
Forgiving, allowing the arboreal atonement
I threw my resort upon the heart;
Of my cold unloving mind;
Back into my memories accommodating
That uttermost - that uttermost;
And the savior was classifying;
The arboreal atonement allowing
4/10/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
October was mild this year,
softer and gentler then most,
colored muted on trees
that clung fiercely to their leaves,
they lingered and fluttered
into November’s days.
Then derecho’s linear blast
roared before Thanksgiving week,
wiping gusts with gusto,
appropriately,
ravaging the dead clingers
from their long, gray branches.
Dead, arboreal splendor
precipitates down, down
to the wasted brown
grass of November.
Last leaves scattered and blow,
across yard and street.
Good timing,
snow predicted on Friday.
There is hope for a tree.
For though you lop its branches
And fell its mighty trunk,
Expose it to the elements
And mutilate its stump—
Yet at the scent of water,
At the soaking of the rain,
From its root will thrust a shoot—
It springs to life again.
Hope there is for ruined tree;
But is there hope, O Lord, for me?
“He’s like a tree by river close
That never withers comatose,
But fruits and blossoms day by day;
That prospers now, and will, for aye.”
Hope there is for shattered tree,
And hope abides in battered me.
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