One of the founders of modernist poetry, Ezra Pound, advised poets and artists to “make it new.” I’ve never before seen a poem about helping a tree shake the snow from itself, and I like this one by Thomas Reiter, who lives in New Jersey. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Releasing a Tree

Softly pummeled overnight, the lower

limbs of our Norway spruce

flexed and the deepening snow held them.

Windless sunlight now, so I go out

wearing hip waders and carrying

not a fly rod but a garden hoe. I begin

worrying the snow for the holdfast

of a branch that’s so far down

a wren’s nest floats above it like a buoy.

I work the hoe, not chopping but cradling,

then pull straight up. A current of air

as the needles loft their burden

over my head. Those grace notes

of the snowfall, crystals giving off

copper, green, rose—watching them

I stumble over a branch, go down

and my gloves fill with snow. Ah, I find

my father here: I remember as a child

how flames touched my hand the time

I added wood to the stove in our ice-fishing

shanty, how he plunged that hand

through the hole into the river, teaching me

one kind of burning can ease another.

The branch bobs then tapers into place

and composes itself, looking

unchanged though all summer

it will bring up this day from underfoot.

Robert Morgan, who lives in Ithaca, New York, has long been one of my favorite American poets. He’s also a fine novelist and, recently, the biographer of Daniel Boone. His poems are often about customs and folklore, and this one is a good example. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Living Tree

It’s said they planted trees by graves

to soak up spirits of the dead

through roots into the growing wood.

The favorite in the burial yards

I knew was common juniper.

One could do worse than pass into

such a species. I like to think

that when I’m gone the chemicals

and yes the spirit that was me

might be searched out by subtle roots

and raised with sap through capillaries

into an upright, fragrant trunk,

and aromatic twigs and bark,

through needles bright as hoarfrost to

the sunlight for a century

or more, in wood repelling rot

and standing tall with monuments

and statues there on the far hill,

erect as truth, a testimony,

in ground that’s dignified by loss,

around a melancholy tree

that’s pointing toward infinity.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2012 by Robert Morgan, whose most recent book of poems is Terroir, Penguin Poets, 2011. Poem reprinted from The Georgia Review, Spring 2012, by permission of Robert Morgan and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2013 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006.