For me, the hardest part about this lockdown situation is having to miss my time with the trees. Unless we’re going to replenish supplies, we can go no further than our neighborhoods, but our youngish neighborhood has no splendid trees shooting way up to the sky.
Earlier this week while my hubby ran into a store, I noticed a redbud tree at the edge of the parking lot. Desperate, I took advantage of the situation, and spent the few precious moments with the tree. The buds are usually gone by mid-March, so I was surprised to find the pink buds still on the tree. I was also pleased to find leaves beginning to sprout because I always miss that phase.
He’s right. There’s no poem as lovely as a tree.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
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.