Life Force
Aug 23 2010


The maple struggled, all summer.
By late August
it began to turn.
The leaves so frail, they glowed
back-lit by sun,
turning into old wine, watered down,
shrivelling
into little fists.
It reminds me of a grey old lady’s
frizzy halo of hair,
hennaed red
but comes out mostly orange.

I have watched through the kitchen window
pruned dead branches,
seen it die back
heroically re-grow.
Because this stunted tree is really quite beautiful,
its twisted limbs, its thinning crown,
its brittle rust
against the lush green garden.
It proclaims the life force
by simply persisting,
a most unlikely survivor.
It should have died, years ago;
it lives, I know
on borrowed time.

When it does die
I think I will let it stand.
Where birds will flourish
the roots return to earth.
And the trunk rot slowly
from the inside out.
And there will be more life
in that cast-off wooden body
than when it thrived,
in full leaf,
in the glory
of autumns long forgotten.

The first high wind,
and all its leaves
are gone.


This is actually true. A live tree is mostly dead wood. Aside from the leaves and roots, the rest of the living tissue is just a thin layer underneath the bark. But when a tree dies, it becomes a superb habitat for familiar creatures like birds and squirrels; and when it falls to the forest floor, for the invisible lives of millions of bacteria and fungi. So there is a far greater weight of living matter in the dead tree than there ever was in the living one.

This tree does exist, by the way. I watch it daily. I’m still surprised to see it set buds each fall, and leaf out after each hard winter: so far, anyway! It’s a great example of perseverance. And who doesn’t like to root for the plucky underdog? Who could possible have the heart to cut it down?

In the first version, “ …but comes out orange” came right before “ …proclaims the life force.” Which didn’t work, of course: the amusing reference is totally incongruous so close to the gravity of “life force”. But I realized later that I had almost inadvertently succeeded in rhyming one of those supposedly unrhymable English words: “orange”. “Orange” and “force”: close enough for poetry, anyway!

My favourite part of this poem is “little fists”. Not only does the image work really well for me, but it’s a nice bit of foreshadowing for the theme of heroism and perseverance.

This poem also contains an example of why I’d much rather write poetry than novels. (Aside from the fact that I’m lousy at narrative and dialogue, have a short attention span, and much prefer instant gratification over the long haul!) The night between the writing and the final edit (I say “final” advisedly, of course!) I lay awake in bed for an hour going through possibilities before I came up with “cast-off”. (It was originally “inert”, and the alternatives in between included everything from “sarcophagus” to “cadaver”.) I somehow don’t think novelists can ever afford to spend over an hour – and lose sleep – on a single word! ( …And now I can add, after the “final final” edit, it was much the same for “brittle rust.” That one took several days of back and forth and back again!)