Some Time, Some Storm

Jesse Doiron 

February 14, 2021

The fellow down the road 

says I am wrong about the tree, 

that I should take it down. 

“It leans too much this way,” he says, 

describing with his hands 

an arc across the clouds. 

Though blue’s above the cumulus, 

he sees the sky as dark. 

“If it comes rain, hard like before, 

you’ll be in trouble; roots won’t hold.” 

He looks at me a fearful face, 

so I look up at nests in limbs, 

with squirrels and two young robins 

intent on making more. 

“About the rain,” I say, “the roots. 

Tree’s been here longer than we have.” 

He swings his head from side to side, 

and clear as any bell 

rings out a warning one more time. 

“Storms will come up sudden.  

The tree will fall; you mark my words.” 

But I continue to protest, 

“Right now, there’s seasons we can wait. 

Up there, my friend, and what of them?” 

I pierce the arc he’s drawn. 

“The birds need just a while, 

as do the squirrels this time of year.” 

He laughs out loud, “It leans too much,” 

and then farewells me in the light 

of clouded sun beneath  

a full-green tree alive with life. 

I know he’s right, of course. 

It leans too much, no doubt. 

Some time. Some storm. The tree will fall. 

In 1991, Jesse Doiron was teaching in Kiev, Ukraine when the U.S.S.R. collapsed into oblivion.  In 2021,  Jesse Doiron was teaching in Beaumont, Texas when the United States did not.