Bertha Rogers: Copper Beech Trees in Winter

Leaves arc, like paintings of blown leaves;

like cut paper, like sunset strewn

across red-gold sky, like smoldering fires;

serrate-edged, notched, like some knives.

But they cut only the hard wind,

the wind that tries to bridge them.

Wind can’t; these trees are too feisty;

they do not hide in niches or ditches;

they flaunt, they claim rough edges.

Farmers name beeches weeds; they push

through field soil. Their roots patiently wait,

shove worker-laid stones, open faces.

December disrupts, beats black branches,

feathered, fingered twigs; they’re like pens

writing winter’s aggregate history;

black barriers; hinged nodes above snow,

hanging on against blizzard breath;

hanging on all the scarred, bleak season.

Copyright 2018 Bertha Rogers. First published in From the Finger Lakes Poetry Anthology. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.

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Beech Tree, Snow, The Downs, Bristol, England