Trees
I used to walk all over town
with an app, collecting names of trees
like a birder working on a life list:
red oaks and white oaks, sycamore,
walnut, all the maples.
Now I like to watch the canopy,
the trees I know and the ones I don’t,
their constant, ceaseless change
sixty feet above my head.
I stop and look at ginkgos, though,
remembering the avenue in the quad,
male and female planted together.
I want to hang on somehow
to those lost trees — the pale woven bark,
the fan-shaped yellow leaves burning
that first October away from home,
the pheromones of smelly fruit
pressed out under our feet.
I stop and look at bald cypress. There’s a street
I walked for years and didn’t see them,
and then I did. When I got home I had to find you,
interrupt to tell you about them,
their feathery, deciduous needles
and tall, straight trunks, flared at the ground
like bell-bottom trousers in the ‘60s.
And it’s okay that the treeslive their aloof, noble lives outside language,don’t care, don’t even not carewhether I’m nostalgic or garrulousor know their names.