Monday, April 18, 2016

When I think about friends, I think about trees


When I think about friends, I think about trees,
and when I think about trees, I think about sunshine and roots,
and little boys with shovels, and girls drinking tea in butterfly suits,
each in their own way kites sailing free — when I think about trees,
I hear leaves in the breeze, and whispers of bees
side by side on our knees,

(and so my prayer goes, if you please)

when I think about friends,
and think about trees.



8 comments:

Jan said...

And when I think about friends
I think about you.
You are invited for tea
and bring your shovel :}

Love this, William!!!

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jan! And I must say, your suit’s a beaut!

Two Tigers said...

Some of my best friends are trees, and some of my best trees are friends. And I think of you either way.

William Michaelian said...

Many would be stumped by that riddle, but not me.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Two tree poems for my friends who loves trees.


Hope in Winter

Two months of windy cold and rain
became a crystal blue surprise
on Christmas day.
Clear now and warming,
the prodigal sun wakes the yaupons
and the live oaks
and the pines, granting each
a slightly brighter flush of green.

They stretch and vainly pose
in the unexpected light,
impudently dare the soon returning gray
with how their freshened colors shine.
Rocking in the breeze they seem
almost like children at play
on the beach in summertime.

Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald


Untitled For March

Even the most stubborn trees now budding,
all the holdouts that procrastinate,
like that arrogant little Red Oak
who never cares if he’s always late,
or that weepy, unwilling willow.
But now the turn of axis and the rains insist
that all cooperate and all lift leaf
and seed from Winter’s pillow.

Despite their sullen reluctance
and the threat of Spring-borne storm,
they gladly choose the fate of the reborn
and in so doing are rewarded, the chosen
of cardinal and crow.

So spring returns and all revives
but men still fight and lose their lives.
Even birds and trees can understand
what living means, have the sense to know
the difference between what suffers and dies,
and what will grow.

Copyright 2008 – Softwood: Seventy-eight poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

"...friends who love trees", that is.

My damned computer is so old it can't even spell anymore.

William Michaelian said...

Priceless. You have a computer?

Thanks for these two fine and timely selections from Softwood.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Thanks for 'When I think about friends, I think about trees'.