A lovely October morning here at the homestead. Our yard doesn't get the brilliant reds and oranges, but we have numerous trees that shimmer almost like Aspens in Colorado with shades of gold and bronze and copper.
Growing up, my father frequently took my brother and me on walks to the woods behind our house. He gave us (and his grandsons) a copy of Fifty Trees of Indiana. I wish I had his memory -- my son and husband know most of the trees. I don't remember many of them, except the most obvious like birch and oak, but I appreciate the beauty.
Enjoy this favorite poem (one of the few I have memorized) and my pictures from a few minutes ago. Most of us probably learned this poem as a schoolchild, but on such a lovely day, the words illustrate the beauty. Quoth the raven.
Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918
Trees
I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
