0021 Poets' Tree

Spiky, a mass of spikes more threatening than sharp - what are they fending off, what are they protecting so fiercely with their green carapace like a thoughtful womb, dropping their hidden beauties in reflective autumn so generously despite their ferocity, scattered all around, rejecting the curious mind of passers-by, yielding to those who know to seek what they hold precious; or perhaps to lie uninvestigated, awaiting the invisibility of the wintered years, the earth’s silent fruitful grave, to seed, to grow, to spread their glorious canopy some later spring, some future generation, with flowers as delicate as wild orchids? Dare to investigate, open their spiky soft protection, and a beauty without parallel is revealed: like some sculpture fashioned by a master craftsman in some rich wood; dare to touch, to lift, to hold: the surface has been polished with some wax that’s more like precious soap, made by some mind that knows as many secrets as a tree. Laugh if you will at this precious toy for boys which, pulped into pure water, will wash the finest clothes, redeem their stains, and leave the lightest fabric of our dreams the radiant, palest blue of heaven itself; chestnut tree; metaphor for poem and poet, for those who seek a parable of unity to join blue heaven with the rich brown earth.