Poems by Cathryn Essinger

In Defense of the Silver Maple,

by Cathryn Essinger

Cathryn lives in the Ohio River Valley close to Spring Creek and the Great Miami River.

much maligned nowadays as a water loving leech,
a tree whose canopy spreads so widely
that it fails in every storm.

Its roots seek out our septic systems, burrow
into the fabric of the subdivision,
contaminate our drains.

But these trees made the suburbs a place
to live, gave shade while there were
still lawns to be planted,

and provided children with a gazillion winged
achenes, whistles, and whirly gigs
to spin in muddy puddles.

Never mind that blight will level the chestnuts,
take down the elms, that even the ash trees
will succumb, these maples

persisted, despite asphalt and strip malls,
their roots tilting the sidewalks
of our childhoods.

Today their young crowd our flower pots,
overtake gardens, sprout between
the cracks in the Costco lot.

As I slop them out of the gutters, I level
whole forests, take down kingdoms
built on chlorophyll and silt,

needing nothing more than a bit of grit
and a splash of sun, each seedling
obeying orders to grow

where you are planted, to tough it out,
to believe in dynasties, to thrive
despite slander and adversity.

© Cathryn Essinger

by Cathryn Essinger

Spring has arrived with the old clichés intact--
fragile and persistent, billing and cooing.

Beside the road, the bones of the little fox tangle
with new grass, and once again the creek gurgles

with snow melt; watercress blooms in the shallows.
The old heron who refuses to migrate, the one

I watched all winter, huddled beneath windbreaks,
standing in pools rimmed with ice, understands

that beginnings always foreshadow their ends.
Once again, he is preening his winter blues, checking

the skies for that first glimpse of a pretty wing tip,
enough to make his old heart rise and rise again.

And so he waits…loneliness still part of his intrigue.
Soon, there will be the release of summer, and for

a few days, in the cracking of the eggs, in the cries
of the young, there will be the bliss of belonging.

Previously published in Spillway, and in the book The Apricot and the Moon by Cathryn Essinger