The neighbourhood trees
are all lit for Pentecost,
old leaves aflame.
In their eagerness to be ignited
they stand in rows,
head high in the autumn sun.
How we might be as trees?
As my michelia yunnanensis—
its dead budded branches
arcing bare against the sky,
although lost to the summer floods,
refusing to fall down,
fungi riddled and moss clung.
How we might be like the red leafed trees
glorying in their shedding,
brittle tips welcoming release.
How the trees already feel the swelling
of new life
burgeoning in the wood—
it’s promise sure
as a turning season.
Indeed, the Pentecost flame
is a torch-wielding athlete
sprinting across the tree canopy.
How we too might be set alight,
leaning toward the sun,
tall
as my summer hibiscus
joining the autumn trees
in their revelry,
or the transplanted daffodil bulbs,
green shoots already piercing
the cool dark earth.
Yes, the neighborhood trees
are ripening now for burning,
their spring growth
never quite as beautiful
as their showy autumn flowering.
How they have waited,
these trees,
three turning long seasons
to burn up in their fading,
knowing that life, in its green continuum
is a dormant breathing,
a tentative sprouting beginning,
a blossoming, fruiting feat,
and then a succumbing
in a fiery red.
Which to some might appear
as an apparent slow demise,
excepting for the necessity
of death preceding new life.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
May 2023
Living Tree Poetry 