Who knew trees communicate—
that Douglas firs sooth white alder,
and fallen tulip poplars
nourish yellow birch seedlings
at their breasts—nurse logs their name.
Both incense cedar and madrone
have confided that all trees admire,
even envy, coastal and interior
redwoods, but avoid that needy,
millennia old, bristlecone pine, who
thinks every minute is a new day.
Once, while hiking in Oglethorpe
County, two water oaks asked me
to join their healing circle for a
distant cousin, a Black Tupelo
with terminal heart rot. So strange,
a minyan for trees is only three.
Over time, I’ve watched our local
black walnut shake with laughter as
English ivy first tiptoed over
its roots—only to tremble anxiously
two years later as the vine started
to choke its crown, thieving sap and light.
And the selfishness of mistletoe
leaves me speechless.
Trees demand so much intimacy,
branches straining outwards—secrets
shedding from every leaf.
Many times I hike back to the car little
more than a half-filled husk.
This poem first appeared in Wild Roof Journal (2023).
—
Gary Grossman is Professor Emeritus, University of Georgia, and an author of 150+ scientific articles that have been cited over 9800 times. His work appears in 60+ literary reviews and has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions and the Pushcart Prize. Gary’s poetry books, Lyrical Years (Kelsay Press, 2023), What I Meant to Say Was (Impspired Press, 2023) and the graphic memoir My Life in Fish (2023) are available from Amazon.
