To Robert Frost as a swinger of birches
As you would ride the trees from death to life, In some cycle or a second wind Of living and, as Boy Ascending, bow Them down; so would I choose to be the tree. I'd draw the line at poplars, though, anarchists That they are - they never grow, they shoot Unthinking, almost human, for their height. I'd want the time to feel the rings of growth; I'd want the time for roots and seasons known - The flow of spring, descent to sabbath winter. An oak or something used for building metaphors Would be the best - and old enough for moss. Mostly, I believe, I'd want perspective - The kind the birds can see - plus time to think. No up or down or left or right, and time; The sum of all dimensions known to trees. Awareness, more than living, more than flight. Much more than boys, who, living left to right, Experiment with knowledge they're denied By pulling birches down.