Glade
March 14 2013


Between the green canopy
and pungent ground,
deep with needles, decomposing leaves,
the glade was cool, and damp;
chilly morning air
contained
in its stillness.

In the afternoon heat
the relief was immediate,
entering into its shade
as if a door had been closed
behind me.
The way cool air has weight
so the light stays true,
free
of turbulent heat,
the open glare
lifting.

And something haunting, bewitched.
The smooth bark of cedar
running up
curving twisting trunks,
like whimsical beams
in some fantastical structure
not built by man.

And balsam fir, ruler-straight,
with densely spaced branches
sticky
with resinous spice.

And needles, turgid green,
in any shade
I imagine.
Layer by layer, looking up
until every space
is filled.

Interspersed with birch
too white for nature.
And weedy aspen,
fast-growing trees
that die far too young.
Their small leaves
dappled with sun
tremble in the slightest breeze,
like schools of fish
darting as one,
silver flanks flashing.

I rested in the glade,
slipping out from under the weight
of heat, and exhaustion.
As if stepping back
into dawn
the very same day.
Given to live
all over again.

There is a small copse of cedar, down by the lake, that invariably invigorates me when I walk, in the heat of summer. There is something witchy about cedar; and their grey smoothness, their sculptural shapes, makes me want to touch.

I love the way a stand of trees will hold that cool morning air, preserve it through the heat of the day, convey a sense of timelessness. And how restful it feels to escape the light and heat, luxuriating in its cool relief.

It may seem strange for me to write this poem on a cold winter day. It was inspired by a photograph I saw, an illustration that accompanied a magazine article, but looked more like a impressionist painting: a smokey, haunting view of a green forest, dripping wet.

I know I've written a lot of descriptive poems about trees, and hardly need another. But I guess I look at these as being many iterations of a single poem: shamelessly plagiarizing myself; but slowly working toward the one single perfect tree poem ...after which I can throw out all the rest!