Friday, November 8, 2013

The Artistry of Trees

His little fingers tighten on the branch,
The skin begins to stretch, the knuckles blanch.
His little legs grab hold their perch of brown,
His arms descend; Behold the earth his crown!
The tree, his throne, was made for his delight,
An edifice of childhood rite.

Eternal, though, this arb'rous post was not.
As once botanic ovum met this spot.
Shot forth its arms to grasp its destiny
Escaping danger in the care of Thee,
Up toward the Vault its mass began to fight.
The precipice of nature's might.

An undertaking vast she now begins
And ventures now to shed her suckling skins.
Voracious roots the fertile ground espouse;
The leafy lattices in sun carouse.
Her sap now grows robust with grace alight,
The swelling of her mystic sight.

No gravid spring or thriving summer throng,
Our Tree now primes to sing autumnal song. 
In fiery gold she sets her passions free
and groans to paint her masterpiece for Thee. 
Of her whole self she will in fire write. 
A mood supernal doth excite.

Seraphic fire clinging to the tree
Eventually must yield to gravity. 
It robes the earth until, by wind and feet,
the art is marred and perverse meanings mete.
Her art no longer hers; the soul benight. 
Expire, O Tree, in beauty dight.

Her life, it seems, became the awe-full fee,
She spends herself to give her Poetry.
But don't forget that snow clothes sleep, not blight.
O dawn! The wistful hope of night.