“Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky,
How beautiful it is?
All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness
There is a poem, there is a song.”
I was halfway to work this morning, lost in an audiobook, when the silhouette of a tree caught my eye. In the cold morning its branches etched the sky like tributaries intertwining at a delta. It was stark, intricate and magnificent. Somehow, it pierced my inattention and snapped me out of Maoist China and into the present day. I turned the CD off and tuned into the scenery around me.
It was a stunning November morning, and until that moment, I hadn’t even noticed. The rolling farmland spilled away from the edges of the road, in undulating, glistening hills. Frost-covered shingles sparkled on rooftops and lazy curls of smoke drifted from brick chimneys. By the side of the road, fallen leaves skipped and danced in the wake of passing cars, their edges curled inward, as if to ward off the chill. Frozen dew cloaked the fading blooms on leggy weeds with dazzling crystals. A man and his dog walked along briskly, their breath feathering the air with billowing plumes. Farther along, down at the river, the water reflected the last vestiges of fall color, and breathed wraiths of fog that swirled and glowed in the morning light. Concealing. Revealing. Overhead, a flock of geese flew by, underlit by the rising sun. I took it all in, entranced by the beauty, and thankful that I’d finally noticed the gift of this morning.
The rising sun gilds the treetops’
remnant bronzy leaves
and warms the bellies
of low-flying geese
to amber glow
(c) Molly Hogan, 2017
Jama Rattigan is hosting Poetry Friday today at her delicious blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup. She always serves up a feast, so be sure to drop by and enjoy today’s offerings!