Trees

--photo by K J Robinson

TREES

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

--Joyce Kilmer
spotted in A Child's Anthology of Poetry, Ed. E H Sword, Ecco Press 1995.
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I wish I had written the above poem, though I expect I would not have allowed myself the lovely archaic language.

Here is my own bumbling attempt at spring time poetry:

SPRING

Just before green,
in rain that feels
like the breath of rivers:
Bud like infant fist opens,
Rain pearls on black feathers.
I hear singing, soil whispering.

--Kimberly Cockroft
Once again, a chronic problem with my poems: line endings? last line? (Of course Martin has not yet got his poet's paws on it.) But for heaven's sakes, it's a spring poem and does not have to be completely brittle and finished but can afford to be supple, bending, pale green. Here's to spring time poetry!