by Charles Troob
Hot late-summer sun
beats down on the dying birch,
its three trunks split apart.
Forty feet in six years–
more a thick branching weed
than a dignified tree,
it had swayed in the breeze
like its aspen cousins.
Surely, I thought,
it would bend
and bounce back.
Vines, shrubs, flowers
enjoy an August day,
unaware.
We await the tree man
who will do what he does.
Then we’ll raise an umbrella
to replace the shade.
Charles Troob: An eager member since 2010 of two wonderful study groups–Lessons in The Art of Writing, and Reading and Writing Poetry–Charles is grateful for the opportunity to share some of the results.