Transcript
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Maggie Smith (0:30)
Foreign. I'm Maggie Smith and this is the Slowdown. When I was a small child in the house we lived in until I was about six years old, there was a large willow tree in the backyard. I loved that tree and spent a lot of time climbing in it, hanging from its limbs and playing in its shade. My next childhood bedroom had a large pine tree right outside the window. My parents still live in that house and a few years back, in a terrible windstorm, the pine came crashing down. It felt like the end of an era. My bedroom now looks out onto the neighbor's two magnolia trees, which are full of big, beautiful flowers in the spring. Yes, the willow, the pine and the magnolias have all made their way into my poems. They're not just part of the landscape, they're part of my idea of home. I think that's why I connected so much with today's poem. It's a kind of love poem to a beloved tree and to the sense of home it created. Hackberry by Cecily Parks A place I love is about to disappear when the summer sunset drives into the west side of our house, burning with a heat we've been warned about. I look out the two square windows that are filled with hackberry leaves, whose greens vary according to light and wind, and whose shade composes a sort of room for us under the tree. It's said that those who sleep under a hackberry will be protected from evil spirits, and I can't stop thinking of how the four of us for years blithely slept the sleep of the protected as if there were no other sleep, and how in the daytime the tree arranged its shade to let hearts of sunlight fall on the stone path underneath it, how a scar on the tree's bark looked like a brown moth pressed unendingly against it. For months, all I've wanted is the blessing of an open window. Maybe also, I've wanted to sleep through the night. Tonight is the last night we'll sleep under the hackberry, whose leaves at sunset cause the walls and floor to shimmer. It reminds me of crying. You can see the tree from the whole house, june says. When I was younger and walked barefoot on the sharp stones, Kala says, I stepped on its roots because they were smooth. Kretch Maria dusta, a beautifully named fungus, ate the roots from the inside. And now what held my daughter's weight are columns of nothing. Now the tips of the live oaks. The softly brush the tips of the hackberry canopy. I would like to believe in tenderness. Earlier today I tried my arms around the tree, but they wouldn't wrap all the way around and actually the tree scratched my skin and tomorrow a crew will cut it down. Some people call a hackberry a junk tree or trash tree. Throwing shade. I love the tree shade. And now it will be gone, as will the sunlight in the shape of love. And the evil spirits will do as they please with our knights. How do I write this poem? I ask my family as we sit together in the disappearing room. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. And find us on Instagram @downdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org. Foreign. Hi, it's Maggie. The Slowdown is the only poetry podcast in public media. That means your support is vital to keep us going. No matter how much you give, your contribution makes a real difference. Head to SlowdownShow.org donate today to Power More Poems into the Future.
