Coniferous And Deciduous Poem by R. G. Bell

Coniferous

Someone fond of classifying has made
The trees all register themselves as either
Hard or soft. By that, I guess, if any
Meant to do me harm with clubs of pine
I ought to show some gratitude for their
Not seeking out a stand of oak. But that
Aside, with clearing for a classroom,
Two steel wedges, axe and sledge for chalk
And pointers, I'd gladly teach that man
Why anyone who's done it once before
Would rather split a cord of hards than softs.
A fireplace length of oak will fly apart
For nothing more than an axe's bite.
But I've seen pine take hold of a blade
So you'd loosen the handle or crack it
In the neck before the edge is gotten free.
They can absorb a wedge a calmly as a nail.
And once you do get a look inside you'll find
A lot more fiber than you might expect,
With knots that will not split against themselves
But fight when there is nothing left to fight,
And on their way to ashes jolt you with a shot
To once again remind you how they fought.


Deciduous

A whisper begins in the Smokies, spreads
From oak to maple, and passes through
The piedmont to the sea. 'It's time, it's time.'
The green must find its way to red, or gold,
And finally to brown. The flame draws to
The hills the weekend nature lovers
To see the act of beauty made for them
Before they find their winter holes.

An act of beauty, then, the hardwoods let
Them think. But in their solid hearts it's known
That fall is time for courage, and for faith.
'It's time, ' the whisper says again. It's time
To brave pretended death, to face the winter
Naked, when cover might be welcomed most.
(Even the sun leans south to avoid the chill.)
'It's time to sleep. We'll have our resurrection
In the spring.'

Their softwood cousins
Hear the message pass, but pay no heed.
They hold to greenish ways, but cannot boast
An extra inch of growth for all of that.
They take the final death, and rot
Awaiting spring that will not come.