Copper Beech, Parental in Its Girth

Gorgeous light yesterday, we only had two hours so Great Falls Gold Mine Loop and branches, Valley Trail down gorge then Woodlands Trail on ridge above Widewater then down up it's own gorge, my favorite mile and a half within an hours drive (it's fifteen minutes, traffic-permitting)(including any 1.5 mile section of Sugarloaf), beech trees still dead leafed, and the amazing giant beeches have such thick canopies in Summer no underbrush, released beech leaves carpet

• Just remembered (because George) tomorrow a High Egoslavian Holy Day, though it's lost flair, since his shoes cost more than my house I sentence him to death by labor mining ice in an Arctic gulag
• Odd Sunday noise-wise as in not AWOOGA as I expected, awooga soon
• more vicious pincers than Sanders isn't living in a sewer, the Soviet-apologist hypocrite, in production
• Krugman oracle announced Calm the Fuck Down!, Bernie will not be sentencing Ric Flair to an Arctic gulag because Flair's shoes cost more than my house
• If, I said to Warrenite Friend, Sanders was to lose to Trump in the general don't you think the movement he created would continue forward with a momentum Warren losing Biden losing Hillary losing just won't? Warrenite Friend said, that's why my centrist friends insist he be killed, now
• I read and loved Wolf Hall and Bringing Up the Bodies and think l need reread them before reading Mantel's new third of three, has nothing to do w Mantel, I just can't see
• Maybe 
• now might be a good time to read Mantel's Cromwell
• Since Soviet Apologist soon to be common jargon have some Zoviet France

    

THE MARRIAGE IN THE TREES

Stanley Plumly

When the wind was right everything else

was wrong, like the oak we thought built

better than the house split like a ship

on a rock. We let it stand the winter,

spectral, shagged, every sky its snow,

then cut it down, dismantled it in

pieces like disease. Then limbs from

the yellow poplar broke at will—

fell from the heights like bones

of the Puritans; even to gather them

in bundles seemed puritanical.

And the willow, by its nature, wept

long tears of its overbranching,

so pale they were autumnal. These

we turned too easily to switches,

mocking the bickering in the spruce's

nesting eaves, which crows, then jays

bothered all they could. The list,

the list. The sycamore made maps

of disappearance; the copper beech,

parental in its girth, was clipped

hard, by a car, with a wound that wouldn't

heal. Doctoring, then witchery, then

love—nothing we tried would work.

More apple trees that grew nowhere

but down. More maples spilling sugar.

More hawthorns blazing out, telling truth.