He watched carefully as the patrol moved. The G98 was raised slowly and the sniper picked his target. A soldier slightly off to one side. The shooter adjusted the sight and as the man slowed down a little, pulled the trigger. It was the First World War, a man named Joyce Kilmer received that bullet and died. He was a poet and one of his poems fits into the category of over used, or does it?

For the last few months, as I have been out on a trail or walk, trees have been noticed more. Maybe it's because I'm bored walking the same old paths or perhaps my eyes are trying to tell me something. Whichever it is, trees are making their mark.

Trees
by Joyce Kilmer

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 ...

More posts from: Other stuff
A strange dangling thing Periwinkles and butterflies Not the usual sort of thing Finally a lightweight laptop Some asides You're gonna love California About those ego travellers Unplanned and unwanted Those astonishing circumstances Sitting and staring King of traffic jams Finding things to do when you can't get on the road Water and bloom Stay home A winnowing in the offing Don't I wish Sometimes you just need a laugh The Kilmer connection About those Expats The Doors and Portals Just a little shakshuka Maybe it's time for a change Lord of the Rings, a Travelers Guide Graffiti to street art

Comments are now closed
for this entry