TREES
This is a poem about you and me if we
were in a forest and could hear the trees!
Suppose they could talk to each other in
the language of trees like we do as men.
What would we hear as they stood stuck
with their roots deep down in the muck?
Well, I’ve given it thought this very day;
I’ve found words we may hear them say.
The forest is fine, each tree with its kind,
Pine lives with pine, nearly all of the time...
Birches with birches find suitable perches.
But ofttimes they mingle, not being single,
in spots where lots vie for the highest tops.
Then some aren’t good, oft misunderstood,
by those not of their kind any of the time.
So let’s just eavesdrop; hear the trees talk:
“My name is Percy Pine, and I feel fine.
The Winter was rough, but I’m tough,
surrounded by family with sister, Peggy,
and Porky the pine, a brother of mine.”
“We’re as closely set, as we could get,”
Peggy Pine said, waving her lofty head.
And Porky chimed in from under a limb,
“Unlike loners without any close others.”
“I’m Bobby Birch. I’m in a deep lurch,
having been bowed over with a groan,
by winds on the edge of a forest ledge.
My sister, Betty, was blown far from me.”
“We trees on the edge haven’t a hedge,”
Bernie Birch added, “Limbs unpadded,
we take the brunt of the Winter grunt.
We fold and break, for Heaven’s sake!”
Earnie Elm spoke to a neighboring oak
whose heavy left limb was bothering him.
Said he in a huff, “I’ve had over enough
of your tickling finger on me to linger.”
But poor Orris Oak, with one limb broke,
said to the pesky elm, “Go to the helm,
you slim sorry tree; steer the wind off me.
While you’re at it, get your limbs up attic!”
“Quit complaining! Sticky is explaining...
How we forest trees...should happy be,”
said sweet Phyllis Fir. (All trees liked her.)
Sticky Spruce said, “I have said enough.”
The trees one and all, bade him not stall.
Even grumpy Horace, a hemlock horror,
had words to say: “Make it long today,
Sticky. We can’t go, so let’s take it slow.”
“My awfulest complaint makes me faint,”
said Percy loudly. “Pines stand proudly;
beauty our undoing. So I’m complaining
about cold stuff of Winter that isn’t fluff!”
“I really quite agree,” said Evergreen Tree,
another tall old pine. “These limbs of mine
can’t take the weight. More and I’ll break.
But what can we do...about it, me or you?”
“Well, we can’t go...to a better place. No,”
Bertha Beech toned. Bertie Birch groaned,
“Here we go again. Wit of a Beech brain.”
“I’d like you to go,” Bertha said, real low.
It was clear to see...they weren’t friendly
to each other at all. It prompted Pop’s call:
“Knock it off children,” said he, “None can
leave this forest of ours. We lack powers.”
As Pappy Poplar spoke, no other tree broke
his words of wisdom. “To trees it’s given
to stay where rooted. We stand un-booted,
our lot but to grow, bit by bit, ever so slow.
Sticky Spruce is right, we stand day & night,
be happy together all, until the time we fall.
It’s really too darn bad, to always be mad,
or sad while living . We should be cheering!”
As Forest trees talked, city trees squawked,
having few breaks that sheltered their wakes.
When ice storms grew, and chilly snow flew,
They stood grumbling, always complaining
about losing limbs; about having no friends.
Wind break cedars...at least have neighbors
of their own kind...with whom to unwind,
but even they listen...to the shrubs hissing.
Old Hoss Chestnut, saddest and maddest,
could never forgive those shrubs that lived,
Pampered and pruned, giggling not tuned
Beneath his big limbs, quite often unhinged.
And Madeline Maple wasn’t ever quite able
To contain her fear, though she was a dear
in Spring each year, yielding a sap so clear.
Walter Willow just wept while others slept.
So as we fret and worry about snow flurries,
pity the trees that stand unmoving and alone.
Whether in the forest or as your yard guest,
they’re as helpless as you’d be with no home.
Trees cannot speak, but they often squeak,
a cry of windblown pain? I might ask myself.
But no, tis only the wind that twists the limb,
to cause a helpless tree to take what’s dealt.
© Urban R. Coombs 2009
