Poet Trees
I think that I shall never know
a tree as lovely as a poem:
a gallery of words and sounds
that gathers up all downtown,
all the glitter, grit, sales, and steel
all the people, bricks, and bustle,
all the ice, the snow, and the slush,
the boots, the buses, and the hush
that holds the Square when the bugler
blows “Last Post” and poppies shiver.
We plant pine. We prune spruce. Poplar we chop.
But poems we make from our own heart’s throb.