Welcome to those following the blog trail of the Festival of the Trees. I will be posting several tree related photos and writings this month, so please stop back!

 

What better way to begin than with this massive oak located in Safety Harbor, FL

and a poem about the small oak in my own yard.

Advice to Parents

I have the tree everyone on my street hates.

The same tree the builder planted in every yard,

but mine is wild and gangly, a shock of twigs

and branches, with acorns that dangle freely.

The problem is that my tree resides in an area

that seeks conformity, where every plant must

be pruned and trimmed. Branches must be high,

so folks who don’t watch where they’re walking

won’t get poked in the forehead or eye. My tree is not

a pretty tree with its thrust and parry beyond boundaries

of acceptability. It gropes into spaces that interfere

with UPS or FEDEX trucks with drivers in conforming

uniforms delivering conforming packages to tan homes.

My tree dares to poke leaves into spaces which defy

the sheer madness of conformity. Its gathering of Spanish

and ball moss has choked the life out of smaller branches,

in a place where death is not allowed. If my tree could talk

it would not be in a shameful whisper. Nor would it bore us

in some cloned monotone.  It would shout and scream:

“Look at me! With my gnarly bark and scraggly tentacles,

my unkempt beard. Gaze upon the glory of my wildness.”