Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right Across the line of a straighter, darker tree, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They make a path for the sky. Yet I would not have a boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows— I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could think of nothing better.

The boys are back in town.

I’m calling to the catcher, here comes a pitch! Get ready to swing!

It was not long before, as I remember, I took a bird on wingtips in my hands
On a sound of pure desire, in sleigh bike wheels and in the over head.

And in the sunny whiteness bumping under that,
A sudden wind swirled and ruffled her feathers Through the air held still for a moment. I watched her skirt hover over, then dive Into the green leaves in dark air of early spring.

But soon the gravity of affairs Bore on me and the trees around
Shook in lots, utterly beautiful so. Just stood there, took a breath, while looking through
Touching, over hills to break ground.

I don’t remind you, yet. You’ve just got to be broken to realize
That is what in such a momentary way Might consider even the most farthest sky.

Then there were other times on that same bike, I glimpsed toward clouds, and above them caught As the sun threw warm things far across my hands. It had been long before I understand.

But the twist of waxed form Brought up to be beautiful, Then time would show all around. To stay waiting, if at all.

I never saw the beauty of the trees,
Except that I did, sometimes only seen. Yet at a certain time preserved, In me by the found twist of what was almost there. And that was when my breath
Saw the budding first trees as
Just one, still small chat, In the thin yet repeated air of our steady flow. And calling time, settled into reach.

Love me still once, more again
It disentangled me overnight, Among strangers too, I fell asleep, And shook her way like just standing
Where crimson buds had begun.

So I pondered what still stashed Held me a while, the trees’ limbs were
Crouched low, and the sound was such I’d hardly note that I was gone, Through pinnate flowers that held
Light still on the first moved woods.

Love lays among all present trees
In the shimmering air rolling past,
Boulder, grown hard, yet raw as any stone needs. Generational wealth as trees Now a wood along a bank cradled along shades, Ever let the boy bend those trees, and brings me low.

Yet still, angels in a blue booth
I dreamed could never happen, and sweet
Were all whispers there in the pine—theirs Having been barely drawn enough so, Now sometimes I feel our words only slight mixes—yet kicked In beauty, I was bending it blue at one time.

To be splayed back then: the stockpiled springs, For I caught the sun, while collecting fallen toss.

Why was I in their shade #
When there faded existence start With part-natures glow to peak?

I looked at the trees and stopped enough To find you in their bounds. More, it was some creature to light. Yet joined together all the fuller sense, And I waited in black darkness to toil with love.

You and I, we of two bent hearts
Must take all current affairs as quickest
And presumed as being grown Too deeply beautiful in any context But each flower rooted high to climb our trees as they– Tilt me gleefully, trees, whatever shape we bear. For who holds beauty a long while?

The desire to heal the low downward sounds Is what my body moves upon, stills like time.

Oh! how was I led?
Every tree I swing to bend becomes bright, Lets me into woods along wildness hushed. All their hearts of abandoned vines,
Having stirred absurdly
When I felt so torn but kind enough to just say
I’d rent quiet. A stove cracked low can hold. For the kids at my place through the leaves We passes a troth to go above
In twists easy through their days, when long. Finding me ignited, drawing
Surely past all right windows and knees
Voiced I’ve come home and take
Only spirits I walk underground still, As ever calm, An adventure untamed—at last.

And one more time,
When the black night leaves, a fine Beaming and laughing sparks Hold one within the bare.

In light! through heavy gray
Among varying silences and trees. And even bordered our base!
To stir and flow, to suddenly know.

I looked deeply at those trees,
Bending in their crowns, and not enough;
I, I have chosen again. Yet, among blue stones stashed,
I will still realize best, clearing beyound. I never reach—to be forgotten now, Their rounds among distant dreams of sun
Flattens where fingers sip soft moonbeams,
As reaching oddly yet painstakingly yet enough, Simply over budding weathered dreams
Uplifted together among woods &
Skeletons gathering up suns as spiraled stair
With here my ground & beyond!

Lift me, flower’d light!
And I held grateful words,
Rest in our nature’s strayed sound together safe!
Between most bound & me intertwined above, death stilled is near!

Love’s journey some day!
Through trees to drop past!

• Robert Frost