Poem of the Month

It's hot.  Like, really hot.  This week Boise's highs are close to 110.  But the heat is dry, humidity staying at 25%.  So it's bad... but not like 98 degrees, with 90% humidity.  Which I've lived through, which was miserable.

When it starts to get so hot, I start to think back to my family's first summer in 1873 home.  An ancient house, with ancient air-conditioning units.  I remember literally being in my underwear and laying sprawled out on the hardwood floors to try keep "cool."  

I laughed when I read this poem.  Heat messes with sanity.  And I'd bet my bottom dollar I'd be a crazy tree planter myself if I was in this person's situation.  

Hot?  Plant a tree.  

  

Landscape, Dense with Tress 

Ellen Bryant Voigt 

When you move away, you see how much depends   

on the pace of the days—how much

depended on the haze we waded through

each summer, visible heat, wavy and discursive   

as the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road;

and on the habit in town of porches thatched in vines,   

and in the country long dense promenades, the way   

we sacrificed the yards to shade.

It was partly the heat that made my father

plant so many trees—two maples marking the site

for the house, two elms on either side when it was done;   

mimosa by the fence, and as it failed, fast-growing chestnuts,   

loblolly pines; and dogwood, redbud, ornamental crab.   

On the farm, everything else he grew

something could eat, but this

would be a permanent mark of his industry,

a glade established in the open field. Or so it seemed.   

Looking back at the empty house from across the hill,   

I see how well the house is camouflaged, see how   

that porous fence of saplings, their later

scrim of foliage, thickened around it,

and still he chinked and mortared, planting more.   

Last summer, although he’d lost all tolerance for heat,   

he backed the truck in at the family grave

and stood in the truckbed all afternoon, pruning

the landmark oak, repairing recent damage by a wind;   

then he came home and hung a swing

in one of the horse-chestnuts for my visit.

The heat was a hand at his throat,

a fist to his weak heart. But it made a triumph   

of the cooler air inside, in the bedroom,

in the maple bedstead where he slept,

in the brick house nearly swamped by leaves.