Survey of American Trees
by Brian Eckert
Art by Jennifer Weigel
4/9/2019
Looking down from the plane at the rising Sierras
Sequoias stretch up as ruling giants of the mountains
larger than the girth of this plane, if not, nearly.
Looking down from the plane coasting east on the jet stream
at the prickly ocotillo sprouting leaves whenever it rains,
transcending systemic seasonal cycles every spring and summer.
Looking down at the red dirt expanse of the Arizona desert
red rocks and soil scattered with saguaro cacti, spiritual
steeples pointing up at me, the clouds, and sun above
Looking down into the Rockies I imagine all the gin
waiting to be made from the pale, translucent blue
berries growing on common juniper at high altitude.
Looking down on the grasslands of the great plains
so few remain to prevent erosion, top soil runoff,
more catastrophic flooding of the Mississippi Basin.
Looking down at the swaying southern palmettos
hypnotizing me with their waving, I slip back
into memories of weeknights in the sandy summer.
Looking down on blossoming magnolias, their
soothing scent and beautiful blossoms bulging
out into the Southern air they resonate so strongly.
Looking down on the Midwestern landscape, I dream
of experiencing the taste of native Pawpaw fruit
never utilized in agriculture as it should be.
Looking down on the friendly oak forests of home
remembering the stacks of firewood lining the roads
of the woods I grew up in, all hand split and seasoned.
Looking down unable to discern the species
I think of all the logs I ever split, each unique.
The hard wood of hickory, nearly impossible
to put a mallet through on the first swing,
needing a practiced eye to find the grains,
avoid knots, and patience enough to
take 27 consecutive unsuccessful swings.
The sweet smell of cherry, only one in my 40
acres, but plenty on the ditch banks and field
edges of the family farm, where I was introduced
to hickory and patience as well, covering my
gloves and dirty clothes in earthy floral perfume.
The pointless effort of splitting pine, always
too wet to burn even after a seasoning,
popping, crackling, splattering sap bubbles
on any inexperienced enough to burn it
and not move away to a safe distance.
The sassafras scent still sticks in my mind,
unsplit because they never grew large enough
to be anything but a pest for serious loggers
so we always let them stick around, for deer
to shed their velvet in preparation for rutting.
The only tulip tree I ever split stood for 20 years
at least, in my parents backyard blooming annually
with the other decorative trees my mother loves,
it died one winter, came down as logs in the spring,
sat stacked through Autumn, before its cremation.
