Description of the Tree Out Back

The tree in the backyard has been shaved

By the hands of man unsubtle as I.

His work leaving knots you might think of as natural

The work leaves scars in this tree’s eye.

I describe the tree because I have no name

Its leaves might fall at a wedding or a game.

Numerous and endless confetti growing like little grapes

Still moist and fuzzy, browning leaves of the highest quality

Naturally dangle under the ends of the farthest branches.

A bunch which hold this metaphor or bouquet

A dog’s nose twitching in the breeze.

These leaves are not propped as a cluster or crown shield

Grape leaves are upright lazy and proud.

This tree can be trusted for all as it grows,

Its limbs turn to vines to soak in all it knows.

Its integrity is sworn by both its main branches

Split off four times at the same distance and angles.

The other side has two little runts.

Tridents made of three little stumps.

On them leaves rise like mushrooms on stumps,

Two little runts making half a tree punt.

Just as the tree dips downward and sideways to grow

The mind’s eye clears one branch which upwards will go.

Preserving intact two parallel streams

But exposing in turn the inside of beams.

Inhumane acts of man sometimes can

Show you the strength of nature’s plan.

Like delicacy bone marrow, the branch’s core is soft and solid.

It’s a face that looks out into emptiness stolid and cellular,

So hard to describe ‘cept as digital glitch, the inside called hollow but gives it it’s twitch.

Cut at the joints are these promising branches

Which wind up like snakes toward power lines threatening the ranches.

Yet still this tree I trust completely.

In the way it splits and the way it leaves.

The bark itself hints at its stress

And will only leave me a small mess.

It’s the way I see this tree in October from bed

Filtering the light of the morning sun.

Description becomes all that it is

And all that has been undone.

The shadow it casts is very vast

And I’ve wondered how it will last

Until I imagine its masts.

I’ve chosen to call this tree Napa.

For the light that it modifies

The way that it multiplies

And the sleepy shade it provides.

The power lines that grab at its trunk

Hardly diminish from this natural monk.

Where has this come from?

How did it survive?

Under who’s watch would this tree

The best shade provide?

Who had it cut?

Who did not trust?

And who is ready to climb?