WHITE BIRCH

It was a clear autumn day as we drove up through the Adirondack Mountains toward Fort Ticonderoga. Many of the trees were displaying their beautiful fall colors. They stretched out like a multicolored blanket before us. They flowed like an un-ending River across the broad expanse of the Adirondacks.

Along the edge of the highway I saw massive slate walls that had been carved out to make way for this wide straight road. As we drove past them I caught glimpses of magnificent white birches growing out of the shear slate pallets of nature. To me it was an awesome sight. As my nephew drove along at highway speed I attempted to take photos of these wonders of creation.

As we approached clusters of them I asked Fred to slow down so I could get clearer pictures. It became a point of humor in the car. The laughter increased when I said, “There is a poem in those white birches growing out of the solid slate rock.”

The following week my nephew was driving me to visit a former secretary and her family now living in northern Vermont. Once again we saw the magnificent yellow leaved white birch growing out the slate rock. He laughingly slowed down so I could attempt to get blur free photos of the scene. It worked as can be seen by one of the photos shown below.

He thoroughly enjoyed my repeated comments about a poem being somewhere in the birch trees. During the remainder of my visit with them he would occasionally ask me if I had found the poem in the birch trees yet. I told him that when I got home I was sure I would find one.

Upon my return home I continued to mull over in my mind how I could find the poem in the birch tree. A few days ago I went on to the Internet and researched facts on several sites about birch trees and their many uses. Between the mulling over and the research the following poem was created.

WHITE BIRCH

While we traveled down the highway,
I saw a special tree,
It was growing out of slate rock,
Beautiful as could be.

Adorned in leaves of bright yellow,
With bark as white as snow.
It blessed me in a special way,
It had a wondrous glow.

I wondered how the seed got there,
How it began to sprout?
How in a small hole in a rock,
Its roots somehow spread out?

What nourished it and made it grow,
Why did it choose that spot?
While rich black earth lay by so near,
It chose a different lot.

A softer life it might have had,
With nourishment galore,
It chose a harder place to grow,
A plush life did ignore.

Within that tree Indians saw,
Much more than you and me.
The beauty of the white birch bark,
Was its utility.

They stripped the bark nine layers thick,
And turned it inside out.
Made a canoe and sealed it well,
On rivers got about.

Canoes were light and portable.
Carried through forest land,
Yet heavy loads were placed in them,
Their usage was well planned.

They built their wigwams with the bark,
They made them snug and tight,
Overlapped layers on the frame,
Were water proof all right.

Much more they saw in that white bark,
Conceived within their minds,
Made rattles, moose calls, containers
Of, oh, so many kinds.

They tapped the trees and drunk the sap,
And boiled it for tea,
It sweetened up their medicines,
As nice as they could be.

And if a famine came along,
Eat inner bark as meal.
When it is cold, burn it for fuel,
To make them warmer feel.

Oh, yes, white birch I see you there,
With branches all wide spread,
Your beauty and utility,
Brings history to my head.


Don E. Cunningham, Patriarch Octogenarian Poet
11/12/2008 654 words