A Tree Tour Along the Mississippi River, between 32nd and 34th streets
i. The Welcoming Oaks
Reaching the river
turning left instead of right
several oaks line the running path
as it winds above the gorge.
Some
stand
trunks
straight
stately
While one leans in
listening almost
whispering
“Welcome.”
And another leans back
looking causal enough to
call out
“Heeeeyyy!”
at
atten-
tion as
if to
announce
the
begin-
ning
of my
run.
ii. The Floodplain Forest
In the summer the floodplain forest in the gorge near the part of the path dipping below the road is covered in green concealing my view of blue river as I run above.
drip-
ping
thick
wet
mys-
tery.
In
the
spring
the cottonwood
trees release their seeds into
the air and it
snows–the floodplain forest
floor is white
covered
in cot-
ton.
iii. Three Oaks Lining the Path
Oak One stretches across the path
leaning in slightly
to whisper in the leaves of Oak Two.
A story? A secret? A question? A complaint?
Oak Two isn’t listening or
doesn’t know or
couldn’t care less.
Her limbs extend horizontally
not straight but bent
where elbows might be
shrugging.
Just ahead Oak Three broods.
Feeling forlorm
forgotten
freedom-less
chained to a porta potty.
iv. Other Unnamed Oaks
Even though I adore trees
I don’t like oak trees–
at least most of the oaks above the Mississippi River
I encounter midway through my run.
They’re scraggly and not clustered in pleasing patterns.
Just a lone oak here
a lone oak there.
drop-
ping
too
man-
y
a-
corns
my dog will try to eat
my shoe will want to slide over.
And their leaves? Misshapen clumps.
Never resembling the ideal Form of a tree:
FULL
VER
DANT
STRE
TCH
ING
VER
TIC
ALLY.
And worst of all
for over half the year
when I’m running on the bluff
and trying to see across to St. Paul
they block my view.
I guess I like them well enough in late fall
and through winter
their leaves gone
gnarled limbs exposed.
I see through them
to the other side.
I marvel at their twisted forms
not beautiful
but wise and enduring.
v. The Mighty Cottonwood Three
Once or twice
I get bored
of river running
so I turn
off the path
cross the road
and run through
the neighborhood right
by the biggest
trio of cottonwood
trees I know.
When I’m running
I only see
three thick trunks
a mass of
matriarchs keeping counsel
on the lawn.
Later I return
while walking and
crane my neck
twist my back
to take in
their leaves wondering
how long they’ve
been standing there
and what they
notice so close
to the clouds.
Never Trust a Path Without Trees
1.
Running by,
I never stop to study the trees.
If I did,
could I see them breathing,
their leaves acting as lungs
inhaling carbon dioxide
and exhaling oxygen?
2.
At a certain point
during my run,
I’m in a daze,
not seeing the trees
so much as feeling
how the shade of their leaves
cools the air.
3.
After a violent storm,
I cautiously ran under
the fallen limb
precariously propped
against another tree.
4.
Red or gold or orange leaves
are pretty on a tree
but not on the path
where they conceal
debris that lies in wait
ready to twist my ankle.
5.
Never trust
a path
without trees.
walking in the winter, admiring the bare branches
Is it my vision
making the gnarled branches look
so beautiful and wise and
haunting stretching horizontally
above the path?
My inability to see
fine details
softening the hard ugly edges
of the bark and those strange
bulging growths?
Or is it my tenderness
for the odd and unloved?
My refusal to fear death and
to admire the life lived?