“The whole bough bending then springing back as if from sudden
sight” – Jorie Graham, “Self-Portrait as the Gesture Between Them [Adam and
Eve]” from The End of Beauty
But the other tree—the Tree of Life—wasn’t surprised at all.
It bent
its lowest limb (the one
the boy’d been swinging)
and
relented.
We two found it there after Hurricane Sandy:
great, grey and ashen,
as the charred head of a dragon.
I remembered the spot because for yards round no other trees grew
tall.
I thought the little roots were choked out
and that was how life gave way to life.
Now I know
the bigger roots play surrogate parent to so many unmeasured
things:
the dark durance of my
backyard.
What really happened is
the limb broke like a bone.
It happened suddenly, but with much warning.
It didn’t give in; it gave out.
It broke like a bone and swung once or twice and fell and soaked
up rain.
There was no boy until the next day, and his mother didn’t let him
swing on it, for fear of what it would do.
(I, too, keep my distance.)
Meanwhile the tree rots from the inside.
Meanwhile furry things find out.
Meanwhile fungi take root.
Meanwhile the order of things upsets.
The dead wood releases carbon one billion times slower than fire.
The big tree is dying one billion times faster than it grew.
And one billion times faster than it will grow again, if by some
miracle
it outpaces the
developers that lie in wait,
already sharpening their eyes.
This one needs work. Someone help me write a poem from the perspective of the Tree of Life, the one that Adam and Eve weren't told about. I've been thinking about Milton so much, today in conversation I said "Milton" instead of "Melville."
ReplyDeleteI changed it a little bit. Am I allowed to do that?
ReplyDeleteha ha, I vote that you are allowed to do it!!! this poem is marvelous.
ReplyDelete