The Birch Tree

Thanks for the input. Here is the 90% complete version. After one year it be 99% cured.

This is a quick turn around of a rewrite. I knew the substack readers were a sharp eyed group. I’m sure you’ll spot the changes. The tree, being the star said, “I need more lines!” All I do is soothe egos.

The Birch Tree

There is a void that comes
with no poetry.
It’s a hole with wooly edges
of stupidity or whatever
is the opposite of imagination-
that sparkling tingle
that can see around corners,
see faces on bark,
in leaves and branches,
in clouds.  It imputes
the coziness of bird
and squirrel nests,
the thrill a leaf feels
unfurling on a
luscious spring day.
Later, after tossing on the branch,
blowing and spinning
and waving around,
the sigh it emits
when it softly lands
on a bed of moss.

And then there’s
this old birch tree,
its top gone,
ringed with mushroom,
girded with a clothesline.
When the cabin went up
he was a sapling
and soon festooned
with swimsuits and towels,
T-shirts and initials.
Fifty years is long enough
for a birch tree.
He is waiting for a storm.
Waiting to tip over
and lay down with a sigh.

Swans-9/23