poem

 American SycamoreI wish I knew more about treesCould differentiate an oak from an elmBy sight.  Like a child, I know deciduousFrom pine. I know the white barkOf the birch. But that ’s the extent of itI suppose I could look itAll up.  Get a copy of “FieldGuide to the Trees of Ohio ”.But that would be cheating.  And all those poems littered With sugar maples and chestnutsWould be pretentious fakes.I always run up againstThe limits of language With regard to specificity.For instance, who exactlyAm I? What phony appellation shouldI conjure for proper designation? You can ’t just answer “human”.  Without people assumingYou ’re being an ass.All I know of the wind is howIt sways my trunk and limbs,Sifting leaves loose Again and again, which I used to experience as crushing lossUntil I realized they always grew back.All I feel of the sunIs the coolness of my own shade.The rain, I simply accept.  I don ’t know that I am like any of the others,Massed in hushed unexplored Forests, pegged to ruddy hills,Enduring as long as allowed,Hides lashed by needled sleet,Breezes politely winding past Us like timid women stealthilySlipping out of a crowded party.Unseen, unstudiedUnnamed.I can just call myself “American Sycamore”As if that will change anything.Or “Heart That Swells and Splits Its Seams”.It doesn ’t matter.It ’s just a comforting soundThat you can hear in the Soughing of a...
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs