Only God Can Make A Tree

Trees

I think that I shall never see 

A poem lovely as a tree.

  

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the sweet earth's 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.

Growing up at At Cove School in the 1940s we sometimes had to select and memorize a poem and recite it aloud in class. “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer was popular for that, especially among the girls. It stuck in my mind, surfacing when I walk around our yard of many trees. They are not “mine” but part of property that is eternal. I am their steward of the hour. We lived in Southern California 1969-1971 during Navy years, and how different the landscape was, fewer trees by far. Summer 1971 we came home from California on PCS leave enroute to our next duty station in Ohio, and we were struck by how overgrown with trees Panama City looked -- delightfully, beautifully so. 

Our yard is filled with trees, especially cedars and oaks. Of some dozen, not one tree is perfect, but each one is a gift. Cedars, oaks, couple of pines down front on the Bay, loquats we brought from Apalachicola, a tiny magnolia with fragrant blossoms; grapefruit trees Linda's mother planted by getting up from the breakfast table going outside and punching seeds in the ground and now we have delicious ruby reds in season; eucalyptus, dogwood. Well, OK, even the palms, which after all do signify Florida --

-- several summers ago the avocado tree produced the most delicious avocados imaginable but each winter since has frozen and had to be cut back; its leaves are lush and shady and we hesitate to cut it down; and who knows but it may bear again someday; Linda started it from a seed in a glass of water in the kitchen window -- Linda started it, God grew it --

-- on the Bay down front the ancient cedar is hideously torn and deformed on the Bay side by violent storms but lovely from the street side and a faithful ground holder against the hurricane’s tide --

-- a century ago Alfred played under the spreading hickory that Ivan toppled, Hurricane Season 2004. It blocked all view of the Bay from the upstairs porch and I had guilty relief mixed with sadness -- I would never ever have cut it down, but it was an Act of God --

-- others, one enormous oak, mostly cedars, also downed by storms. Opal et.al.

My grandfather walked under these trees. As a boy my father climbed in these trees. My grandsons climbed in these trees. Their steward, I would never cut one down. May they all be here to shade and please generations to come. And for children yet unknown to climb in. 

A tree is a gift. A gift of God.. 

Only God can make a tree.

Monday: Peace.

TW+

Cedar: internet

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer, 1886-1918