art of losing: welcome to the round-up, and tree cycle

Welcome to all on this last Poetry Friday of 2017!  If you are new to our Poetry Friday tradition, please let Renee at No Water River explain it all to you, and to old friends--I greet you with virtual hugs.  You all know how valuable this community is.

At this time of year there is a tree in my house, just as there is likely a tree in yours.  Even if you are not Christian (and perhaps especially if you are pagan), you may have a a special tree residing indoors right now: cut or living, evergreen or white PVC, electrified or candlefied--and is a menorah is a tree of sorts as well?  It's my favorite thing at this time of year to come down early, switch on the lights, and come to in the glow of our indoor tree, which gives its life for our celebration of the rebirth of the sun and the hope of spring--noel noel.  I'm never tired of this poem.

[little tree] | E. E. Cummings

little tree

little silent Christmas tree

you are so little

you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest

and were you very sorry to come away?

see          i will comfort you

because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark

and hug you safe and tight

just as your mother would,

only don't be afraid

look          the spangles

our little tree

that sleep all the year in a dark box

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms

and i'll give them all to you to hold

every finger shall have its ring

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see

and how they'll stare!

oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands

and looking up at our beautiful tree

we'll dance and sing

"Noel Noel"

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I have always been a tree-hugger.  This poem is from Squeeze and can be dated to approximately 1972; below is my daughter visiting the very cedar mentioned in the poem in 2006 (click here to see it on a map).

How to Run Away | Heidi Mordhorst

Take money.  Pack light.  Coast your bike

down the fastest hill in the neighborhood.

The one by the Baptist church is good.

Claim a weeping willow:  plunge through

hanging curtains to find a private room.

The swish of long leaves keeps you company.

Or lie under a cedar with triple trunks

capturing air and space above you.

Its needles make a pungent carpet.

Or climb a dense magnolia.  There are

leathery leaves to hide you from enemies,

fuzzy grenades to lob through the branches.

Then go shopping.  You don’t need much:

saltines, peanut butter, a carton of milk.

Your finger makes a perfect knife.

Now move in and build your nest.

Hang your bag on a twiggy hook.

Stay.  Eat.  Read your book.

Stay until you know they’re worried.

Stay until you miss your brother.

      Stay until the shadows cool your mood.

Then pump your book, your bag, your bike

back up that hardest hill

toward home.

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I'm always watching the trees in my yard, those close by in my neighborhood, the ones across the field from my 2nd-floor classroom.  Joyce Sidman captures their essential wisdom in this poem from Winter Bees (2014)  which we can't get enough of.

What Do the Trees Know? | Joyce Sidman

Illustration by Rick Allen

What do the trees know?

To bend when all the wild winds blow.

Roots are deep and time is slow.

All we grasp we must let go.

What do the trees know?

Buds can weather ice and snow.

Dark gives way to sunlight’s glow.

Strength and stillness help us grow.

********************************************

So as always I was communing pretty closely with the trees when my spouse surprised me the other morning with a report on the 80-foot tulip poplar we share with a neighbor.  "It's confirmed unhealthy and we need to take it down before it falls on our roof," she said, and there I was crying into my son's lunchbox.

Dec. 27

one of our trio of tulip trees, 18??-2018

"All we grasp we must let go All we grasp we must let go All we grasp we must let go."  I repeat

and repeat what the trees know, but this tall tulip that hugs our patio, shades our outdoor table,

drops honey-bearing nectar on us all May, that stood here long before the patio, long before

the house indeed (coincidentally born the same year as I), that stood in a wood I can

 barely imagine, unmapped, unloved, not a feature but a creature of an unpeopled

landscape—this  tall

tulip with its  straight

trunk   unlimbed   to

30  feet, is  precious

to me. I should speak

for  this  tree, save  it  

from  our ill human

meddling,  but  good

sense, this tree's own

deep-rooted  wisdom

counsels me: stillness.

Bend, give way; strength

and stillness, stillness helps us grow.

draft (c) HM 2017

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May it be so with the eternal internal conflict:  when to stand strong in resistance, when to bend, when to let go?  The rooted stillness itself becomes the greatest challenge. 


But, once let go, there may be another kind of rebirth: to wit, craft worked upon the fallen tree.  My brother lost an American black walnut tree some years ago and finally reclaimed the wood in the form of several gorgeous pieces given as gifts this Christmas.  The wheel of the tree at the turning of the year.

Looking forward to seeing what portents you all have for the New Year!  Leave your link below, and as the French say, neatly avoiding any religious sentiment at all, 

meilleurs voeux a tous pour la nouvelle année!!

An InLinkz Link-up