After-Orts #102
Tree
by Jane Hirshfield
It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.
Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.
That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books--
Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.
Black Birch in Winter
by Richard Wilbur
[the last of four stanzas]
Old trees are doomed to annual rebirth,
New wood, new life, new compass, greater girth,
And this is all their wisdom and their art—
To grow, stretch, crack, and not yet come apart.