Tilia Americana?

by Jim Reed –

Tilia Americana?

One roadside basswood

on Gibson Street

rears its delicate arms to protest

those who would do it in.

 

Who will speak for the tree?

The birds and the bees

seasonally inhabiting its branches?

 

The rabbits and the voles dining on its bark?

The caterpillars chewing its leaves?

The chipmunks, squirrels and mice munching the seeds?

The bees, especially the bees,

who create spicy honey from its gifts?

 

The gentle octogenarian on whose land it lives?

The beekeeper who, like the Slavs, considers it sacred.

Who, like those in other cultures, believes it repels bad spirits.

 

Maybe you and I — who value the diversity of life,

The interconnectedness of species.

Certainly not those clear-cutting Amazonian cloud forests.

Nor those who fail to welcome shade or aesthetics.

 

Gone are the days of those Earth Firsters

who would spike the tree to save it,

the days of active tree sitting as men came

wielding chainsaws or axes.

 

Let’s welcome the spring buds

when the rain comes, the summer flowering

of verdant leaves and yellow white flowers,

the nutlet fruit, even the autumn leaf fall.

 

And let’s honor the trails of snow-covered branches

that direct our vision to the full moon,

the North Star, distant galaxies.

This poem was written about the loss of a beloved Basswood tree, a favorite food for honey bees, that had lived many years on Sam Hall’s land.