A Living Tree
We see, like crooked fingers on a hand,
The twigs and branches, bare against the sky,
A melancholy sight to meet the eye,
When winter's grip has paralysed the land,
And then we see, as if by nature planned
In recompense, when life is riding high,
The spreading greenery of full July.
These are things we know and understand.
But how the living sap, when summer's near,
Wakens and rises with the lengthening days,
And nourishes the leaf-buds that appear
In burgeoning arborial displays,
A livery to deck the growing year,
These are details which escape our gaze.
Comments about this poem (A Living Tree by Simon Whitfield )
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