Tamarack

Sept 20 2014

The tamarack turns to gold

at the first hard frost.

An uncommon beauty, until its needles drop,

shed

in gentle showers

tinseling down.

In a breath of wind, the stroke of a hand

through soft sinewy branches.

Then stands, its thinness exposed

through a northern winter’s

frozen fastness.

A coniferous tree, but not evergreen

it looks like winter-kill,

skinny, shivering, plain.

But for a few weeks in fall

its golden crown is luminous,

commanding attention

like a radiant girl

in the bloom of youth.

Turning heads

amongst dark green pines,

the brittle leaves

of aspen.

I planted tamaracks

when I first landed here,

an exposed slope

in low scrub

and glacial soil.

Years on, they still look like gangly adolescents

who out-grew themselves,

long-limbed, and awkward

when their needles thin.

Glamorous, yes

in the glory of fall.

But practical, for a native of north,

shedding the heaviest snow

and supple enough

in a stiff nor-wester.

Come-from-aways, like me

they are now deeply rooted.

Have gamely survived

and will surely remain,

well past

my own brief tenure.

Another to add to my ever-lengthening list of "tree" poems. I recall so far celebrating the white pine, black spruce, aspen, and cedar; and a poem about a snag, that's home to birds, and a fallen giant, decomposing on the forest floor. I'm sure there were more.

But this time of year, one thinks of tamaracks (which also go by the less mellifluous "larch"). Because they are the only conifer that sheds its needles. And because there is something in the autumn light that makes them luminous, as if radiating from within. Their branches are thin, but with this sinewy elasticity that is both tough, and appealing to the touch. Their light green needles are soft, and become almost gossamer in fall. I suppose if we were further south, in maple country, the brilliant reds would catch the eye. But here, it's mostly aspen and evergreen: yellow leaves you only notice when they're back-lit, and thinning pines, with a sprinkling of dead brown needles.

I've always found the tamarack a lovely tree, and planted several when I moved in. A couple died, but the others have flourished. It seems to me that here, they're kind of halfway between native and exotic: there are infrequent stands, but you wonder if those were planted, not natural. And mine are the only ones in my immediate area. Either way, they fit in. Kind of like I do: a city kid, who much prefers the wilderness.

I like the combination of toughness and beauty that the poem evokes. And also the brief moment of brilliance, like youth's fleeting pulchritude.

I'm not a person of faith, and hardly an optimist: more skeptic, atheist, nihilist. But the act of planting a tree -- an act of deferred gratification, and which you know will out-live you -- can't help but express both optimism and faith. And the act also confers a powerful sense of connection: both across time, and to a place. I like the humility of the ending: how "brief tenure" suggests not just that our time is short, but that we are squatters, not owners; and how it further implies the utter indifference of nature to our presence. The relative permanence of the tree seems the strongest form of admiration for something that's tough, but -- "sinewy" ..."skinny" ..."shivering", not to mention "gangly" and "gamely" -- hardly looks it.