Vox Populi
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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
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