Watch the Neighborhood Grow

Henry

Suspending Saturday's routine
meant skipping chores
in favor of naming the trees.

I carried a clipboard and paper
northwest to the corner where
I could have been fixing the fence.

Henry
would have been a good choice
for the Ponderosa pine,
but no other names came to mind.
Lacking a rival,
Henry it was.

Easy,
I thought,
and started
toward a neighboring tree.

Instead,
turning back for another look,
I added the following notes
next to the name.

Henry.
Good name for a tree.
Gentle shade on this side of the hill.
Large trunk. Big cones.
Thick carpet of needles
flat and clean on the ground.
Henry is a living machine
who whispers and sways with the breezes.

Henry.
Some of his blood flows
to the bark,
stays glued to his body
in long sticky trails
slow to comply with gravity's orders.

Intending to sit in the shade
for a few more moments,
I awoke to disintegrating
images from a dream
about Day of the Triffids--
the end of an accidental nap.

Robinson

Large black oak,
branches--solid, heavy--
bark marked by deep wrinkled folds--
the face of an experienced sailor
toughened by salt under the sun.

Robinson's name took a little more time,
arrived after speaking with neighbors.

Answering questions,
sharing photos,
repairing more than a few
logical lapses with gentle returns to available facts--
we agreed the tree was more than 100 years old--
possibly closer to double the number.

Tree houses.
Castaways.
Crusoe.
Casual talk found its
way around mistakes
to Robinson
and we picked up
a pencil and paper
for a walk to the tree
and sketches.
Cutting no limbs, using no nails,
guarded from rain, protected from wind,
we worked in the shade of benevolent leaves
provided by a prolific producer of breathable air.

Robinson lends us some time off the ground.

Watch the neighborhood grow.