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Robert Lindner
Marty's note has opened the floor to more POMES.
Here's a recent one that seems to fit in with his philosopy.
The Old Copper Beech
“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree…
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”
Trees by Alfred Joyce Kilner
The great copper beech once was grand with gold
And brown leaves touching the sky till fall,
When they slowly fell. But it’s become too old.
It’s summer, and there are no leaves at all
On its highest branches and just a few
On the lowest ones. It’s a lovely tree
That I’ve passed by for years. Of course, I knew
The old beech was much, much older than me.
A beech can live for nine hundred years, though
It’s not been that long since people lived here
That would have planted it. But I don’t know
Who planted the old beech and in what year.
I’ll have to wait and try to count the rings
When it’s cut down. For now, it raises its white
Arms to the sky, as its great gnarled trunk clings
To life, as some leaves still wait for the light
On the lower branches, trying to say,
“I’m not dead yet,” to whoever can read
The messages of trees. Whatever they
Say, the upper branches are bare and plead
To be taken out of their misery.
It is the ambiguity of death,
When the dying may wish the dignity
Of a good death, yet fight for every breath
Just to stay alive. But the old beech tree
Is just a source of beech nuts though they might
Be a copper beech like the tree I see
Raising its leafless branches to the light
That once adorned them with the energy
Of photosynthesis that gives each tree,
Or plant or algae the ability
To grow and make the earth a place where we
Can live and breathe the oxygen they make.
But the earth has become a place where trees
Are burning, en masse. Though our air’s at stake,
We haven’t done enough. Humanity’s
Too driven by individual needs
And selfish desires to prevent the fires.
We don’t want to sacrifice, and our deeds
Do not match our words and many liars
Lead us astray. Blind us so “we can’t see
The forest for the trees.” But I began
With a copper beech tree that spoke to me
About death and dying trees and I can
Be led by that to trees that are burning
In Amazon’s forests. Though I care for
Forests, the tree I see should be turning
More colorful for fall, but has no more
Leaves or very few to do what trees do
In autumn with leaves turning red and brown
And yellow and decorating our view
Of fall on the avenues of our town
And on the hills. But the old copper beech
Just has leaves on lower branches to fall
When this autumn arrives after we reach
The equinox. There are no leaves at all
On its upper branches. This old beech tree
That was once grand is dying. It speaks to
Me. It tells me of the fragility
Of life and reminds me I’m old, but new
Compared to a beech tree that can live for
Hundreds of years. And it also made me
Think about the forests where more and more
Fires are burning as catastrophe
Waits to follow disaster and we wait
And wonder how bad the future will be,
As the earth keeps warming up at a rate
That’s getting faster as the misery
Spreads with more droughts and floods and forest fires.
Perhaps the old copper beech knows it’s time
For it to go and it has no desires
That prolong its agony. Perhaps I’m
Over reaching with my tree metaphor
Of death and dying, but the copper beech
Looks sad, gnarled and frayed, as it stands before
Me, and its naked branches seem to reach
Out to the heavens for it seems to be
Losing its battle with time, as we all
Must. But the world won’t notice a lone tree
That once was copper colored, strong and tall
And adorned my walks with its majesty.
I expected it to always be there.
But life’s not endless and even a tree
That “only God can make,” and fills the air
With what we breathe, can’t survive endlessly.
And though fools like me write poems, the trees,
Those God made trees, are burning and we’ll be
Waiting beneath the “Sword of Damocles.”
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