Snow

John La Farge (March 31, 1835 – November 14, 1910)

 

Snow

Snow is what it does.
It falls and it stays and it goes.
It melts and it is here somewhere.
We all will get there.


Frederick Seidel (b. 1936)

 

Published in: on March 11, 2017 at 7:13 pm  Comments (1)  
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Wintu

Beatrix Whistler blackberriesBlackberries,
Beatrix Whistler (1857–1896)


We shake down acorns and pinenuts.  We don’t chop down the trees.
– Wintu Indian

Thirteen Blackbirds Look at a Man

bloemart Abraham Bloemaert (1566 – 1651)

1
It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of
good and evil.
But there is a man in it.
2
There will be
rain falling vertically
from an indifferent
sky. There will stare out
from behind its
bars the face of the man
who is not enjoying it.
3
Nothing higher
than a blackberry
bush. As the sun comes up
fresh, what is the darkness
stretching from horizon
to horizon? It is the shadow
here of the forked man.
4
We have eaten
the blackberries and spat out
the seeds, but they lie
glittering like the eyes of a man.
5
After we have stopped
singing, the garden is disturbed
by echoes; it is
the man whistling, expecting
everything to come to him.
6
We wipe our beaks
on the branches
wasting the dawn’s
jewellery to get rid
of the taste of a man.
7
Neverthless,
which is not the case
with a man, our
bills give us no trouble.
8
Who said the
number was unlucky?
It was a man, who,
trying to pass us,
had his licence endorsed
thirteen times.
9
In the cool
of the day the garden
seems given over
to blackbirds. Yet
we know also that somewhere
there is a man in hiding.
10
To us there are
eggs and there are
blackbirds. But there is the man,
too, trying without feathers
to incubate a solution.
11
We spread our
wings, reticulating
our air-space. A man stands
under us and worries
at his ability to do the same.
12
When night comes
like a visitor
from outer space
we stop our ears
lest we should hear tell
of the man in the moon.
13
Summer is
at an end. The migrants
depart. When they return
in spring to the garden,
will there be a man among them?

R. S. Thomas (29 March 1913 – 25 September 2000)

Tree At My Window

Study of the Trunk of an Elm Tree' John Constable,Study of the Trunk of an Elm Tree,  John Constable (1776 – 1837)

 

Tree At My Window

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

 

Robert Frost   (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)

 

Published in: on March 28, 2014 at 11:19 pm  Comments (5)  
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Trees

daphne—and he cried with a loud voice:
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees—
(Revelation)

They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens.
For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall,
The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,
With the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas,’ the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.
I remember one evening of a long past Spring
Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.
I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing,
But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.
The week’s work here is as good as done. There is just one bough
   On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,
             Green and high
             And lonely against the sky.
                   (Down now!—)
             And but for that,
             If an old dead rat
Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again.
It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;
These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:
When the men with the ‘Whoops’ and the ‘Whoas’ have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away
Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.
It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes;
Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,
             In the March wind, the May breeze,
In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.
             There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;
             They must have heard the sparrows flying,
And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying—
             But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:
             ‘Hurt not the trees.’

Charlotte Mew (November 1869 – March 1928)

https://secretgardening.wordpress.com/2012/01/08/a-plea-to-the-attention/
‘“Man is senescent, that is to say is programmed to die, but a plane tree is not,” says French botanist Francis Hallé. After its leaves have fallen, life begins again in the spring and the tree recovers its youthful genomes. If it is not subjected to accidents, diseases or humans, the plane tree could live for centuries . . . .’