Thirteen years a sapling
too weak to fight, too tough to kill;
thirteen years a young tree
struggling to stand;
thirteen years of bearing
confiscated fruit.
The roots knot
under the wall and pull;
the slow lean of tree thighs
splits the stone;
in the shade moisture
gathers, freezes, cracks.
When the wall falls
no one is surprised but the tree.
I loved watching this happen in your poem, and the little surprise at the end! I imagine this might be happening in my neighbor's backyard some time in the next 13 years...to a fence, not a wall.
ReplyDeleteOh. My.
ReplyDeleteI love the ending.
ReplyDeleteLovelovelove this poem.
ReplyDelete(Been meaning to ask: if your new/future home has need/want of an Oregon white oak sapling, I've got several candidates for you to choose from. Can help plant, too. Will deliver. The mama tree & squirells left more projeny in need of homes. <3)
Once again I'm thinking you have a sonnet template in the brain! Like that final couplet twist, too.
ReplyDeleteInteresting to live with these insistent green creatures. I have a poem about the birch tree that grew up inside an apple stump in our back yard. My children thought it a fairy tree.
Oh, I'm going to be watching my trees more closely.
ReplyDeleteThis had such a nice, soft rhythm/pace to it. Lovely. :)