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Cruel winds...Fallen Bough.
Dark the clouds
to curse the skies
they rend the sun with
veiled disguise...
A cry of boughs sore
ripped by fate,
their tortured leaves
wild whipped,
prostrate.
Dark the clouds
to curse the skies
they rend the sun with
veiled disguise...
A cry of boughs sore
ripped by fate,
their tortured leaves
wild whipped,
prostrate.
Excellent empathy in this
Excellent empathy in this poem. When I was six years old, I planted a buckeye in the small patch given to me in my parents' garden to try to cultivate my interest in gardening. I dug so deep I hit stone, thinking that I had reached the interior edge of the other side of the world (I was quite naive). It took the sprout two years to break through. That tree is now one of the hugest on the street where I grew up. It is so large that, from time to time, the power utility has to come out and trim back some of the branches. I planted three such trees: my father gave one away, without my consent, and the other one was transplanted to the other side of the yard so that the remaining two would not compete. It is not quite as tall, but it still impressive. I loved those trees and spent many summer hours in their company, enjoying their shade.
Starward
How lovely, I've always
How lovely, I've always wanted to plant my own tree but never had the room. Just have to enjoy the borrowed ones behind
my garden :-) xx
I miss the tree terribly.
I miss the tree terribly. When I was a sophomore in high school, approximately ten years after the tree had sprouted, it had already reached huge height and I used it, that summer, to string up some cherry tomato vines that we had planted and cultivated in high school biology just before the summer break. The vines did very well being strung to the tree, and, by midsummer, we were harvesting enough tomatoes from them, daily, for salads at lunch. Yes, I had some real special moments with that old tree.
Starward