Conversing with Trees

Here I sit, empty.
No poem comes to me.
Stirred, I go in search
of a verse to pluck.

But on what kind of tree does
a poem grow? Our garden
offers plenty of possibilities:
pine and oak,
beech and maple
spruce and hemlock.
Each one of these spirited trees is
ripe with grace and
rife with peace.

I settle, conversing with trees.
And even if no poem should arrive,
I’ll be succored by the sight of leaves aloft,
and trunks holding up the sky, my eye now
soaking in the chlorophyll filtered light,
inciting wonder, if not a poem.

4 thoughts on “Conversing with Trees

  1. shoreacres says:

    No, I don’t think you’re a chump! But sometimes alliteration will have its own way, and the thought of a poem as pluck-worthy fruit was too good to pass up:

    A poem growing ripe and quite plump
    Can fall from its bough with a thump.
    But while verses are green,
    any poet too keen
    for a harvest risks being a chump.

    Thanks for your own evocative poem, and the chance to laugh a little, too.

  2. thanks for this Allen. Somehow it feels like trees ARE a poem! Loved imagining you in your yard under the varied leaves.

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