The Trees

Benoît Trimborn

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Philip Larkin

Poems about trees. I wonder how many I will collect here. The trees always seem to be telling us something. I don't even think the non-poetic can deny that. This time they are encouraging us by example to put the past behind us and begin again. What was that poem a few months ago? Begin, by Brendan Kennelly. It's a recurring theme, and one that I seem to need to hear. The belief that I can indeed shake the old leaves off and begin afresh is utterly essential to my sense of hope. As long as I can start again - I will. Year after year, day after day, hour after hour, if need be. Afresh, every moment.