22 ICSA TODAY
Oh, for the Trees in Springtime
Oh, for the trees in springtime
when the bud first opens and litters the ground with its remains
and the tender petals emerge, fresh and palest green
upon the face of a stately tree that bore the winter snow
with ease—slumbering, white powder on black branches
occasionally alighted by a visiting blue jay or cardinal, red
awakened by the golden kiss of heaven—all spring long it stretches itself upward and onward in a slow,
luxurious yawn
drinking thirstily from the sky turned black with terrible rumbles of thunder
the tender petals flip to expose their bellies while the world and the cardinals shiver in fright
Oh, for the trees in springtime
when fat-fisted children reach into the tall grass from the fall before
and pull back two or three winged seeds
from maple trees and scream in delight as they helicopter
to the ground
next to the trunk older than their mother’s mother
and just as watchful
who now remembers why she loved those children, as children of her own sprout up just outside the reach of
her canopy
Oh, for the trees in springtime
but the live oak seems almost like a god of ancient times
with a base broader than a man can embrace
with tree limbs stronger than the river flows
who in the fall drops acorns faster than squirrels can gather
the spirits within, you can hear snort with mirth—when one of their artillery happens to fall on someone’s head
they don’t call them Live Oak—for nothing
But oh, for the trees in springtime
new leaves combined with the smell of the earth
represent the cycle of life as old creatures give way to new birth
promising a thousand days underneath the cool of their shade
this is where I come to read my favorite book
and upon my shoulder and neck and side of my face
sunlight’s dappled touch kisses me every time the wind
runs its fingers through the branches
Oh, for the Trees in Springtime
Oh, for the trees in springtime
when the bud first opens and litters the ground with its remains
and the tender petals emerge, fresh and palest green
upon the face of a stately tree that bore the winter snow
with ease—slumbering, white powder on black branches
occasionally alighted by a visiting blue jay or cardinal, red
awakened by the golden kiss of heaven—all spring long it stretches itself upward and onward in a slow,
luxurious yawn
drinking thirstily from the sky turned black with terrible rumbles of thunder
the tender petals flip to expose their bellies while the world and the cardinals shiver in fright
Oh, for the trees in springtime
when fat-fisted children reach into the tall grass from the fall before
and pull back two or three winged seeds
from maple trees and scream in delight as they helicopter
to the ground
next to the trunk older than their mother’s mother
and just as watchful
who now remembers why she loved those children, as children of her own sprout up just outside the reach of
her canopy
Oh, for the trees in springtime
but the live oak seems almost like a god of ancient times
with a base broader than a man can embrace
with tree limbs stronger than the river flows
who in the fall drops acorns faster than squirrels can gather
the spirits within, you can hear snort with mirth—when one of their artillery happens to fall on someone’s head
they don’t call them Live Oak—for nothing
But oh, for the trees in springtime
new leaves combined with the smell of the earth
represent the cycle of life as old creatures give way to new birth
promising a thousand days underneath the cool of their shade
this is where I come to read my favorite book
and upon my shoulder and neck and side of my face
sunlight’s dappled touch kisses me every time the wind
runs its fingers through the branches
