Ash is a quiet tree, light and leafy <br />It soothes and mildly shades, easing <br />With a grace, with a favour quickly won, <br />Tasting of clouds and a milky sun. <br />The day is blond with its cheer <br />All that is tranquil and fun gathers near <br />Under its ringlets, free-flowing, fair. <br /> <br />Under its scattered coins <br />Without fuss, without noise <br />Tight knots and screws may be undone <br />Racks loosened, heat plunged in <br />Wetness. Time sweetly, gently runs. <br /> <br />But there are darker woods, with foliage <br />That surges sable like night over day <br />And stirs with its eloquence, with a <br />Mane of menace and fluency <br />All that is deep at the core <br />Of things, all that is beyond. <br />All that is not rest, all that reaches for more. <br />Those shadowy tresses catch and curl in their waves, <br />A riot of tenderness, rapt in a phrase <br />That has nothing to do with desire- <br />A thousand tales, a world where everything <br />And nothing is sure. <br /> <br /> <br />When you are called from the forest, <br />To go where no trees throng the earth- <br />Now tell true: which of these would you choose <br />To sing its song in your tired mind? In that <br />Inescapable dearth, which tree <br />Of memory would best tell again <br />Of the worth of what had been? <br />Which of the two, judge by the pain <br />(Welcome the rawness, <br />Nurture the bruise) <br />Would have been hardest to lose?<br /><br />Richard Blanch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-choice-4/
