We’ve lost many trees to storms and disease over the years. The enormous old hemlock beside the barn that Sandy twisted off its foundation, exposing a root system as clunky and complicated as an old-fashioned telephone switchboard. The ancient willow that began shedding its mighty limbs with dangerous abandon and had to be euthanized. One of the three blue spruces that we planted almost thirty years ago that, early on, began showing signs of fungal disease which we were told could spread to the other spruces unless we took action. The other two trees have indeed survived, though not without bi-annual dousing with fungicides. Like so many evergreens in the Berkshires, the spruces are under attack from different kinds of fungi, gypsy moths, bag worms, and the many side effects of climate change.
And yet, this summer, covered in a fresh bright blue coat of needles, towering side by side over the wild flower field, they never looked more lovely and alive. Here’s to remaining upright when so much around us is in danger of falling.
On Falling (Blue Spruce)
By Joanna Klink
Dusk fell every night. Things
fall. Why should I
have been surprised.
Before it was possible
to imagine my life
without it, the winds
arrived, shattering air
and pulling the tree
so far back its roots,
ninety years, ripped
and sprung. I think
as it fell it became
unknowable. Every day
of my life now I cannot
understand. The force
of dual winds lifting
ninety years of stillness
as if it were nothing,
as if it hadn’t held every
crow and fog, emptying
night from its branches.
The needles fell. The pinecones
dropped every hour
on my porch, a constant
irritation. It is enough
that we crave objects,
that we are always
looking for a way
out of pain. What is beyond
task and future sits right
before us, endlessly
worthy. I have planted
a linden, with its delicate
clean angles, on a plot
one tenth the size. Some change
is too great.
Somewhere there is a field,
white and quiet, where a tree
like this one stands,
made entirely of
hovering. Nothing will
hold me up like that again.
What a beautiful poem if also sad.
I love trees. Blue spruce are one of my favorites. I remember the blue spruce trees on my late grandmother’s small property in Hamden, Connecticut. I will never forget them even though I have not been back there in years. I imagine the people living there now might have taken them down as they changed the landscape. I really would not want to see it. I would rather remember those tall blue spruce trees looking over the yard.
Thank you for writing, Cheryl. Yes, sometimes it’s far better to remember — than revisit.
oh Liza next time you come to BA please let me know.
We would love to see you.
<3
Gwen
Of course, Gwen. I’d love to see you, too!