Dancing in Fall

The sky invites
The sycamores to dance.
Bare branches
Bend and sway
Curtsying to one another
In proper fashion.
IMG_5048.JPG
Meanwhile the leaves have flown.
They turn up around back
Loitering by the steps,
Rabble rousing and wild dancing…
Waiting for the night wind
to whisk them away. IMG_5084.JPG

I’m very thankful that the leaves in the country don’t require raking, piling, bagging, and stacking. The night wind just whisks them away…

 

This was originally posted in November of 2014.
November 2017 is national novel writing month around here. So, yeah, don’t bug me, I’m finishing my novel…

Under the Shedding Sycamore

With apologies to Henry W…


Under the shedding sycamore tree
The irritated gardener stands;
The gardener, a busy woman is she
With aching back and hands,
And the muscles of her flabby arms
Are weak as rubber bands.


What, what to do with all that bark?
Now strewn out all around
It covers the the porch, the roof, the yard,
And every scrap of ground.
Why are apples in short supply,
Yet worthless bark abounds?


Her back is tired from bending,
The garden cart piled high
With quirky pieces of papery bark–
There a nose, there a mouth, an eye
A mask of camouflage, faces of wood
Still all on the grass they lie.


Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the litter fall,
Achenes in spring, bark in summer
Giant brown leaves in fall.
And the branches come down every season
With no regard for all.


Cursed, cursed are those who planted
This regal sycamore
With no thought to it’s future girth or height
Just ten feet from the door,
When we would prefer its litter to fall
All on the forest floor.


Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through the yard she goes;
Each morning sees the same task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
How long, how long must this go on
Before she has earned repose?


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Don’t plant a sycamore near thy house
Or all thy days will be fraught
With leaves, achenes, bark, and twigs
And thy battle will come to nought.

The Catalpa Forest

the catalpa tree in the side yard
Dominates.
catalpa tree and sunset
A late bloomer,
She wears lace in June
on her sunlit green dress


Luxuriously, she gives with abandon all she has —
blossoms, twigs, branches, seeds, leaves…

The birds and the wind
deposit her bean pod necklaces
far away at the grassy edge of the hillside. 


Every spring there is a new little tree.
Or three.
The catalpa forest grows
and the wind is sweet with the orchid blooms.

Her waist is not small nor dainty,
Eleven feet around,
No arms could encircle her.

Green lichen covers her bark,
And winter shows her true form
of gnarled, aged branches.

Birds and bees love her,
and so does the hammock.

The view is unforgettable
on a June Sunday afternoon.
Birdsong and breeze and the billowy green
bring gentle rest to the needy soul.

Reblogged this from June a couple of years ago….