Between prairie fires, buffalo
and wind few trees could live
here. The ones that did take root
and survive grew tall over the grass.
We stopped the fires, and the buffalo
are gone. Now fences provide
shelter for saplings to grow.
But when I drive up 183 toward
Abilene sometimes an oak catches
my eye, a tree, hundreds of years
old. Settlers would have known
this tree, Comanches too, I’m sure.
And ever since I read Lonesome
Dove, I can’t help but wonder
what horse rustlers may have been
hanged from its branches, their legs
twitching in the space above
the wildflowers blooming.
—
PAD 2014 #4: Since… | We Write Poems #207
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
if trees could speak…
I suppose they’d tell us we’re doing it all wrong.
nice poem.
I suspect they would. And thank you.
I love your meditation about this tree. Interestingly enough, the spirit of your meditation reminds me of how James Weldon Johnson wondered at those black composers of songs and spirituals in “O Black and Unknown Bards”. Keep on trying to divine those roots.
-Nicole
Thanks, Nicole. I’ll have to look into that.
The silent observers of history. What stories they could tell if they still talked to humans as the Ents used to do.
The balance of description and history is wonderful, James.
Thank you, everyone, for your comments and kind words.