Feature - Poem

Birch

As I sit here on the porch

On a beautiful August day,

I stare at the majestic tree

Rising proudly into the sky.

Regally and silently soaking up

The last rays of the summer sun.

Its white parchment bark is a beautiful

Contrast to its glossy green leaves,

Jagged on the edges

But not as sharp as they seem.

When the wind blows through its boughs

Its leaves make only the softest sigh.

They don’t try to hold the breeze,

But let it slip by and disappear

Like the last draughts of a dying river.

In the summer it stands so proudly,

Giving shade to the children and animals

That play in its coolness, and bask

In its beautiful, refreshing shadow.

Autumn comes, and the tree is cloaked

In splendid shades of saffron and amber.

When the wind blows now the tree

Releases its leaves with sorrowful regret,

Holding onto a few like some precious secrets,

Letting the rest be taken and scattered

Like the dying hopes of a forgotten love.

Soon the tree is decked with snow

And frost clings to its branches.

In the depths of winter

The tree looks so lost, so forlorn,

Like an old stray dog

That’s forgotten its name.

It stands like an old worn-down scarecrow,

Out of place and useless in purpose.

And it’s then, as the icy winds whip

And the flurries fall

That I wonder

If the tree remembers the summer;

The children playing, 

Butterflies dancing,

And the songbirds’ ballads.

It’s then, in the midst of winter and the cold,

That I wonder if it remembers

The warmth of the sun,

The rustle of its foliage,

And the splendid sight it was.

I wonder if it remembers

Being truly

Alive.