The
Secret Life of Trees
April
4 2017
They
hide in plain sight,
the
secret life of trees
in
their forest cathedral.
There's
a path through the woods
where
it straightens out
and
trees line either side.
Smooth
trunks, evenly spaced
rising-up
like sentinels,
a
canopy
of
dappled green
in
a gently curving arch.
Like
the nave
of
a great medieval church
I
feel sanctuary under its vault;
the
filtered light
the
cool air
the
lofty open space.
But
the mystery of trees
is
their underground existence.
Roots,
dividing finer and finer
until
they intertwine,
an
elaborate web
passing
molecules, messages.
Branching
mycelia
who
feed, and are fed,
microscopic
saprophytes
resurrecting
the dead.
And
chemical signals
from
porous leaves
resounding
through the air;
the
cacophony of trees
in
the wood's majestic stillness.
I
listen to a hard rain
on
an aspen in spring,
its
tight succulent buds
beginning
to unfurl.
On
a sprawling maple's
autumn
foliage,
its
brittle parchment's flattened note.
And
a cedar's dark green fronds
absorbing,
softening.
Like
bird song
I
learn the woods by ear;
each,
a distinct sound
in
a community of trees,
a
congregation
singing
from its hymn book.
Stopped
in
the cool shade
of
its high green canopy
we
are small,
tiny
inhabitants
of
a larger body
too
vast to comprehend.
We
thought there were trees
when
forest
was
all there was;
a
single organism
we
never heard, and never saw
walking
through its heart.
Scroll
down to the bottom, and you'll find a link to the article that
inspired this poem.
Ed
Yong is a staff writer at the Atlantic,
and almost every day produces a terrific piece of scientific
journalism. The
article is his review of a book by David George Haskell, The
Song of Trees.
Yong
describes Haskell as “a kind of naturalist-poet”, and I find this
greatly appealing. My poetry is very much about close observation
and microcosm; and from the sensibility and prose style this review
suggests, I think Haskell and I think very much alike, are trying to
see the world in much the same way.
The things that please me most about this poem are getting the religious metaphor just right, without laying it on too thick; and managing to shoe-horn in a couple of complicated technical words -- mycelia and saprophytes -- without jarring the flow. I really dislike taking poetic license with the science.
The things that please me most about this poem are getting the religious metaphor just right, without laying it on too thick; and managing to shoe-horn in a couple of complicated technical words -- mycelia and saprophytes -- without jarring the flow. I really dislike taking poetic license with the science.
I
think the religious metaphor can be seen into the final stanza, even
though there are no explicit references there. Because the idea of
being in something bigger than ourselves but that we're unable to
discern could be taken as a religious allegory as well: that is,
our smallness and solipsism, set against the ineffable mystery of God
...creation ...the universe.
By
the way, there really is a
spot like this. On one of the trails near my home on Hazelwood Lake.
Harder to tell in winter. But once it's leafed out, this tunnel of
green is quite outstanding. My first time there, the word "sanctuary"
came to mind, as it does repeatedly each time I visit.
Anyway,
here it is. I'm counting on the Internet's reputed capacity and
permanence (as if!) to keep this link live.
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