Looks nothing special
In late summer.
In the rain in the yard,
You’d cut it down,
Its thick branches drooping
With the weight of water
Flown over lime-colored leaves.
Even in a sky without sun
They glisten like liquid sugar.

If you live in the woods,
You ought to know something about trees.

A home sits among hickory or beech.
Scrubbed, polished,
Swept and mopped,
Filled with love,
Likely anger,
Indifference,
All the emotions
That seep into a place
Mix with the vibrations
Of the growth around it.
The lumber itself steeped
with the whispers of the forest,
The hush of trees as they sway,
Ocean sounding and woeful
In a changing way.
Each day backed
By a sound track
Of trunks stirring air
With the movements
Of the turning earth.

It’s what starts the seed
Before the sun climbs
Into springtime’s sky;
What stops the man
In the heat to say nothing
Of the rays of summer;
What turns the worm
Beneath the forest floor;
What tints the willow
Pale green, then yellow
As the days grow short.

What else could change the world,
If not the wonder of whatever
That soaks into the fibers
Of mountain aspen,
Southern pine,
Or, here, the dogwood?
Stooped, wet, and green
Against the green and growing world,
You’d cut it down
Not knowing
Its sheet-white blossoms
Will flower the yard in spring.