Thursday, August 30, 2012

Tasso's Oak (Peter Blume)


We watched transformers spewing sparks
As a freak derecho blew through our town
And cut twenty thousand trees down,
All soon stacked and chipped in our parks.
Centuries old, Tasso's oak still stands,
Buttressed with steel cable and iron bands.
Encased in red brick and mortar, its roots
Send forth a sucker, a lone, seeking shoot,
While beneath no one looks at tree or Rome,
But stick to knitting, play, pray, or make love.
Did the old poet, writing, let his eyes roam
From words to the leaf-tattered skies above?
Trees will outlive us, or not. Let them die.
Only, choose one that we will know you by.

1 comment:

jmarkley said...

Your poem grows on me--worthy of its subject, which is praise. Thank you for it.