Yesterday April and I planted chyrsanthemums in our front yard, optimistically hoping that they will be able to withstand the November chill. As we were working, I found myself stopping to admire the massive oak tree in the yard just across the street from us.
When April and I first looked at our house, which was exactly one year ago, the oak tree about which I speak was in full color, putting on a show of oranges and reds that made it look to be on fire.
It really is a beautiful tree, one that, in some small way, made me want to buy our house just so I could, in autumn, sit on my front porch and look upon its beauty.
I had not thought about that until yesterday, but as I looked up from our flower-planting and saw the beautiful behemoth casting its stare my way, I put down my shovel and gazed upon it for awhile. And I got to thinking about the Joyce Kilmer poem about trees:
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet 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.
There is something very beautful and true about this simple poem, something that touches on the majesty of nature. I like this poem for the same reason “How Great Thou Art” is my favorite hymn: they both speak of how we are rendered small and put in wonder by the grandness of nature.
Blog posts are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.
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