The beech rises

stalwart on the ridge

brooking no challenge,

his smooth gray bark

shining in Fall sun

among yellowing leaves

and as I lean

to watch, a golden leaf

falls, whippling,

barely stirring air

to come to rest gently

on a twigged fork.

 

On a day

when politics

is too much with us,

I repair to the woods

to admire the beech

with a crook

like an elephant’s knee

in its massive trunk.