The Methusaleh Tree

The sycamore stands bare of bark,
its faded, gray wood split
by sun, wind, rain,
its branches kinked,
its trunk knotted with galls
like garish wooden goiters.
Between flakes of falling snow,
twigs curl inward,
like fingers of a withered hand
slowly drawing shut.

This wizened tree,
crippled by blizzards,
scorched by lightning,
beleaguered by parasites and blight,
moans a dry creak
in begging for the saw.

Spring arrives -- sap thaws
and oozes up the trunk.
Lone bouquets of green, then red,
bloom fragrantly.
Squirrels rear their young
in a hundred hidden hollows.
Woodpeckers bore holes
and feast on mites.

Twig to twig with Methusaleh,
above the bowing, brittle arms
that splinter free and fall,
a youngster towers,
bark flawless, without blemish,
branches sturdy in their reach,
every bud popping green with leaves --
how enviable,
how boring
the youth of trees...

Scott Speck
01/17/2002