The Roots of Birches

Underneath the trunk that turns the light
To yellow afternoon, that turns the kite
Of leaves to chintz, the woods to papered
Walls, some small unrelenting creature
Has exposed the truth of it, the trick
Of forests in their youth, a shiny stick
Of recent root, like speckled PVC,
The underpinnings of the older tree,
Not at all the grimy, dim, Victorian
Beginning you might think, but neon,
Dayglo, heavy metal spray of sprig
That summons up no damask, tray,
Or twig, but pipe: Corbusier
Or Frank Wright gone underground.
This is what you could have been,
Slick, clean runner in the slime,
Moving backwards into piles of lime.
Like a metal rod set in concrete
That supports an old marquee.
At the end of all such seasons
The sun relies on compost heaps
To fuel an aging canopy,
A face beyond the reach
Of its gaudy kind of fuse:
A boudoir mirror whose gold leaf
Is just the frame through
Which the flashy soul renews.

March 13th, 1985, Bedford
October 9th, 2008, Lanikai