Burden

Feb 27 2106

The small trees

are still bowed and bent

from an early snow

that fell heavy, and wet

and froze in place.

While the infirm were broken

the weakest felled.

In a hard winter,

as unpredictable

as a changing earth.

Their contorted forms

look like little old men;

hunch-backed

skinny-limbed

silver-haired.

Who knows

how close they are to death,

how permanent

their cramped deformity.

Will they spring back, shaking-off adversity?

Or will they bear the scars

of the hard life

that we all eventually carry?

Especially the wild rose,

bent double

almost touching down.

I am told a dying tree

will muster all its strength

and go to seed,

producing a single flower, at least.

So come spring

a succulent rose

may be its last bequest;

luscious, redolent

red.

As bright as the burning eyes

of the little old man,

bed-bound

and reminiscing.

The surprising strength

of his dying grip.

The life stories

his descendants will cherish.

I apologize for another weather poem, another poem about snow.

But I’ve been observing these pathetic trees all winter, fearing that this burden – if not terminal -- will be ugly, and permanent. Especially the hard hit rose:  it used to be framed in my dining room window, but is now too cramped and contorted to see.

The image that immediately came to mind was of little old men, shrunken and bowed and bent. I think the key to the poem was calling back to this imagery:  invoking the resilience and strength a real old man at the end of life.