the Wiggly Tendrils

The Kinglet

Regulus satrapa · Listen on Bandcamp

singing like a redbreast

Singing like a redbreast Walking to the protest Looking like it’s gonna rain We took it as a sign of change The years have turned our ringlets Silver as a kinglet But time’s the only thing that changed Still, I really can’t complain I never told you you’re the only one Who tried to get me through the night I’d die for you, but you’d still owe me one In the end it works out right Look at us in black tie Happy as two magpies Dancing on our wedding day I can’t imagine it another way I never told you you’re the only one Who tried to get me through the night I’d die for you, but you’d still owe me one In the end it works out right I know we hit a rough patch Silly little nuthatch Everything is upside down Still, we always come around I never told you you’re the only one Who tried to get me through the night And I’d die for you, but you’d still owe me one In the end it works out right

My friend and bandmate Psyche came up with this chord progression and suggested we turn it into a protest song. Although I’ve written many songs in many styles, I’ve never been much good at writing protest music. I find myself drawn more to “Across the Universe” and “A Day in the Life” over “Give Peace a Chance” and “Working Class Hero.” But I took it as a challenge, one that I clearly failed at. The protest appears at the beginning of the tune and then dissolves into a series of moments in a shared life filled with joy and difficulties. Each moment comes and goes with a bird-sign pairing: the robin (proud, protesting), the kinglet (diminished, dignified), the magpie pair (celebrating, happy), the nuthatch (inverted, facing difficulties). The line “I’d die for you, but you’d still owe me one” has sparked many discussions at band practice. When I think on the line, my mental path begins to take on a bit of a corkscrew shape as I try to tease out the logic of what the words literally mean. Suffice it to say, to me it captures a bit of the simultaneous generosity and pettiness that exist in any long love affair. Total devotion, with a bit of scorekeeping on the side.

Ginkgos

Ginkgo biloba 232-93*B, as seen from a bench made from Canadian hemlock 2467-98*A, which grew on the Eastern Extent, survived the arrival of hemlock woolly adelgid, then perished in the drought of 2016 · Listen on Bandcamp

What could ever be lovely as this tree?

When the wind blows through the ginkgos Go and stand up on your tip toes To see the empress in her best clothes Yellow sequins on her slip robe When the wind blows through the ginkgos What could ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be Lovely as a tree When the wind blows through the ginkgos Go and stand up on your tip toes Throaty mutters from the back rows Sotto voce contralto When the wind blows through the ginkgos What could ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be Lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree Maidenhair, maiden fair Yellow dress in the autumn air Look again, limbs are bare Saffron sequins spilling everywhere When the wind blows through the ginkgos Go and stand up on your tip toes I am just a mortal man though I’m just a stan at my piano When the wind blows through the ginkgos What could ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be Lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree Maidenhair, maiden fair Yellow dress in the autumn air Look again, limbs are bare Saffron sequins spilling everywhere What could ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be, ever be Lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree What could ever be, ever be, lovely as a tree

Ginkgo trees are renowned for their beauty and have been cultivated in Chinese gardens for centuries. However, this ginkgo, 232-93*B, descends from a grove of possibly wild ginkgos found by plant collector Frank Meyer on Tianmu Shan in China’s Zhejiang Province. Decades later, Arboretum researcher Peter Del Tredici visited that grove and collected the seed that grew into this tree. Male ginkgos are often planted along city streets or in public gardens, as the females produce a fruit-like seed with a distinctly foul smell, which is thought to attract scavenging animals. To me it smells of vomit. Something about all these ginkgos planted neatly in staggered rows reminds me of a chorus line. And the bench directly across from the ginkgos, dedicated to Del Tredici, is a box seat. A place to sit and wonder: what could ever be as lovely as this tree?

Hawthorn

Crataegus crus-galli 5029*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Where the fawns were born Beneath the old hawthorn Where the berries warn Of the fairies’ scorn Oh, I could have sworn I saw a ribbon torn On the old hawthorn The kind she would’ve worn On some summer morn When her hair was short ‘Cause her blood ran warm We were young and poor She couldn’t’ve loved me more My old hawthorn And she may look forlorn But she’s not one to mourn She’s learned in fairy lore Her crook’d finger warns She’s my lovely crone I see her stand alone My old hawthorn Come, young maiden fair Come and braid her hair And if you brave her thorns You’ll find she’s hard, but warm Trade your ribbon there For the flower she bears My old hawthorn Where the fawns were born On a summer morn In the neither-nor Where the portal forms Come and find me there And we’ll say a prayer For my old hawthorn

Hawthorns are said to be favored trees among the fae. Their bright red berries and small white flowers, with a faint smell of rotting flesh, carry connotations of death and decay, maidens and motherhood. They are trees full of contradictions. And while they are said to stand at the threshold of the spirit world, hawthorns aren’t typically long-lived themselves. This cockspur hawthorn, with an accession date of 1903, would be a mere babe if it were a giant sequoia, but here in the hawthorn collection it’s an honored elder. Cut back to a stump in 2022, the tree now sports vigorous sprouts from its living base. It will never regain the orderly look it once had, with a single leader and crown, but will instead grow in a tangled, every-which-way-at-once pattern. And with a bit of luck, this crooked tree will grace us with another century or so of magic.

White Oak Quercus alba 346-2010*A

· Listen on Bandcamp

The broken oak on Peters Hill Whose crack will kill it dead Is living and it’s fruiting still It’s hanging by a thread It’s hanging by a thread my dear It’s hanging by a thread The broken oak on Peters Hill Is hanging by a thread A chipmunk sits inside of it She keeps her family fed With acorns for the little kits But they’re hanging by a thread They’re hanging by a thread my dear They’re hanging by a thread In the broken oak on Peters Hill They’re hanging by a thread And children played beneath its shade And shared their jam and bread A coaster left there had decayed It was hanging by a thread It was hanging by a thread my dear It was hanging by a thread On the broken oak on Peters Hill It was hanging by a thread Come see the oak in autumn time Its leaves are fiery red The stems grow brittle, worn and fine They’re hanging by a thread Oh naked strength in wintertime That’s what the poet said He didn’t know this oak of mine Is hanging by a thread It’s hanging by a thread my dear It’s hanging by a thread The broken oak on Peters Hill Is hanging by a thread The storm has come, I hear it howl I’m shaking in my bed Come kiss me dear and hold me now I’m hanging by a thread I’m hanging by a thread my dear I’m hanging by a thread The broken oak on Peters Hill Is hanging by a thread

The accession number 346-2010*A suggests that this white oak was the 346th tree accessioned in 2010. Despite its relatively recent accession number, the tree is over a century old and is thought to predate the arboretum itself. Seen in aerial photos from the 1920s the white oak is already massive, clearly visible from the sky. Planted among the crabapples and hawthorns on Peters Hill, still a towering presence when seen from a distance, with two enormous leaders reaching in opposite directions. Look closely and you’ll notice a deep crack where the leaders meet at the base of the trunk. This crack weakens the tree. To try to relieve some of the force tearing at the base, arborists have installed a cable connecting the two leaders, which absorbs some of the tension between the opposing trunks and takes the load off the damaged base. Look up at the canopy and tilt your head from side to side, owl-like, and you’ll notice a fine thread moving against the background of oak leaves. That’s the thin wire holding this giant oak together. A chipmunk has taken up residence in the crack and often greets me when I visit. Once, before the tree was roped off from visitors, I found a rusty tin saucer from a child’s tea set, decorated with a gray rabbit and strawberries. Peter Rabbit, maybe, after he lost his jacket. Someone had tucked it into a small vine growing on the tree, perhaps in the hope that the child might return for it, the way you might put a found glove or hat on a fence post. Clearly it had been there a while. The saucer was barely visible beneath the ivy. I thought of the tree and all it supports: a child’s tea party, a small chipmunk, the chipmunk’s own kits. And what supports the tree? A fine wire, barely visible in the canopy. A thread.

Peters Hill

The Walter Street Burying Ground on Peters Hill · Listen on Bandcamp

Up I climbed Never still Now I lie On Peters Hill Soldiers there Do no drills Far afield Soil untilled Aging stones Stand atilt Flowers there Left to wilt Little flags For what was spilled Find the breeze On Peters Hill Broken homes Rooms unfilled But I am whole I have been rebuilt For the joy For the thrill Piper boy Play your trills Broken homes Rooms unfilled But I am whole I have been rebuilt For the joy For the thrill Drummer boy Play your fills For the joy For the thrill Piper boy Play your trills For those who lie On Peters Hill

Near Peters Hill in the Arnold Arboretum there’s a small scattering of gravestones from the Walter Street “Berrying” Ground. Many of these tilted 18th-century headstones feature a distinctive winged-skull carving. The small cemetery predates the arboretum and includes some Revolutionary soldiers. Captain John Baker, who raised six kids on a large farm, died in 1781 and was around 70 at the time of our war for independence. His headstone is off the path, but not forgotten. The Sons of the American Revolution decorate it with a small American flag on Memorial Day to honor his patriotism.

Katharine Mayo

Her Sample 1773 · Listen on Bandcamp

KathaR INE MAYO IS MY NaME NEW ENGLaND IS MY NaTION ROXBVRY IS MY DWELLING PLACE AND ChriSt is MY SalVatION When I aM Dead & MY BONES are Rotin hear YOV may see my name When I am ForgOtten Kat harine MAYO her sample 1773

A colonial “sampler,” basically a sort of school project to display embroidery skills, by Katharine Mayo in 1773 when she was around 10 years old. She died when she was 94 and was buried in a wooded area of the Walter Street burial ground. She was probably buried in a family plot with her father Captain Thomas Mayo and her half-sisters Sarah and Rebekah who died young were buried there too, but their grave stones are missing.

Headless Headstone

for the broken base of an 18th-century (or early 19th-century) gravestone, unlisted in the cemetery surveys, that lies within a footpath in the Walter Street Burying Ground · Listen on Bandcamp

Don’t tread on me A tripping hazard on your walking path Just a grave without an epitaph Forever quartered with my better half So don’t tread on me And I mean that existentially My brother from another century Your city surveys never mention me Because I’m a headless headstone On Peters Hill I’d ask that you reset me But I know you never will I’m a headless headstone On Peters Hill I’d beg you not forget me But I know You probably will Don’t tread on me I’ll leave you limping with a broken toe Hear you screeching like a piccolo Like a snare that cues the whistle-blow I’m a headless headstone On Peters Hill I’d beg you not forget me But I know You probably will Those who don’t respect the past are destined to repeat it As those who don’t inspect their path are surely going to meet it A headless headstone On Peters Hill I’d ask that you reset me But I know you never will I’m a headless headstone On Peters Hill I’d beg you not forget me But I know You probably will

A song for the broken base of an 18th-century (or early 19th-century) gravestone, unlisted in the cemetery surveys, that lies within a footpath in the Walter Street Burying Ground.

Blackthorn

Prunus spinosa 195-91*C · Listen on Bandcamp

I’m your foul-weather friend I’m ride or die ’til the end You try to fight me but your enemy’s within I’m your blackthorn I’m your foul-weather friend I’m ride or die ’til the end You try to fight me but your enemy’s within I’m your blackthorn Blackthorn White is the fir Gold is the willow Silver the birch Blackthorn Red is the oak Green is the holly King in his cloak Blackthorn Blue is the spruce Yellow the poplar As the tulip tree when she blooms Blackthorn I’m forceful and terse I’m a truth-teller The truth always hurts I’m your foul-weather friend Who can’t be bothered to pretend You think I hurt you but your injury’s within I’m your blackthorn And you’re way past making sense And I am your last line of defense You come correct to me, or you get cut to shreds I’m yours, I’m your… Blackthorn White is the fir Gold is the willow Silver the birch Blackthorn Red is the oak Green is the holly King in his cloak Blackthorn Blue is the spruce Yellow the poplar As the tulip tree when she blooms Blackthorn I’m forceful and terse I’m a truth-teller The truth always hurts

Blackthorn, or sloe, is commonly used as a hedgerow plant because it forms dense thickets of spine-tipped branches that can give you a nasty puncture wound. Small white flowers appear in early spring, and astringent blue-black drupes appear in autumn. These are the sloes behind “sloe-eyed” and “sloe-black eyes” of folk song. In folklore the tree is associated with danger, protection, and boundaries. It’s sometimes said to be blackthorn that grows around Sleeping Beauty preventing her would-be suitors from waking her with a kiss. It’s a tree of challenges and hard lessons. A foul-weather friend.

Plum

Prunus cerasifera ‘Drupis Atroviolaceis’ 418-67*A and 859-27*B · Listen on Bandcamp

We shone like the sun Second to none Weren’t we a plum When we were young And wasn’t it fun To meet everyone Newly begun When we were young When songs were sung To bring air to our lungs We tended the flame Of our mother tongue The sticks and the drums Pur-rum-pa-pa-pums The music we played When we were young You beautiful plums Your war still to come You’re storing your seeds By rules of the thumb But nineteen succumbed Their fingers gone numb Their city besieged But they died on their feet So a nation might eat They protected the wheat In a vault filled with edible seeds They rationed the crumbs Their war was won But their names were unsung They tended the flame Of their mother tongue Through bombs and the guns Pur-rum-pa-pa-pums While “Leningrad” played When they were young They shone like the sun Second to none A flowering plum When they were young

418-67*A was a flowering plum tree in the Peters Hill section of the Arboretum. Its seeds came from the N.I. Vavilov Institute of Plant Industry, St. Petersburg which ties it to the story of the botanists who protected a bank of seeds during the siege of Leningrad in WWII. Once I found a child’s drawing stuffed inside a hollow in this tree. I took the drawing home and wrote a song for it. You can see 418-67*A flowering for the last time in the pictures above, along with the child’s drawing I found.

The Lonely Giant

Pinus ponderosa 16547*E · Listen on Bandcamp

He regaled me with stories of his prime Talked all night with a belly full of wine And when he stood he was taller than a pine The lonely giant taller than a pine He wore a cloak a fur of emerald spines And when he spoke an image came to mind He’d lost a thing he really can’t define A lonely giant taller than a pine His shoulders sloped and sleep was in his eyes “I’m going to eat you, but maybe, not tonight” He excused himself, again apologized The lonely giant taller than a pine And as he left I heard the giant crack The lonely giant possessed a wicked laugh He said some things sometimes it flashes back Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-loo-cah-lack Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-loo-cah-lack Cah-loo-cah-lee I heard the giant crack Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-loo-cah-lack Cah-loo-cah-lee She’s never coming back How I escaped I really can’t surmise It’s strange to say, but he was a friend of mine He taught me things I really can’t define My lonely giant taller than a pine Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-loo-cah-lack Cah-loo-cah-lee He had a wicked laugh Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-loo-cah-lack Cah-loo-cah-lee He’s never coming back

Ponderosa means “heavy” or “weighty” in Latin and shares a root with the English words “ponder” and “ponderous.” The tree was so named because its wood is unusually heavy. Ponderosas are among the tallest pines in the world, though this particular ponderosa (16547*E) is of modest height compared to the white pines that tower nearby. It’s the oldest ponderosa in the collection and has clearly seen better days. Still, I love to see it. A lone trunk with a small cloak of emerald needles on its shoulders. A lonely giant.

The Applecrab

Malus ‘Kerr’ 591-61*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I lost my way and doubled back To find my place upon the map The hill had moved and seemed perhaps To be a sleeping giant’s back My limbs were sore and stiff as slab When there she was, the Applecrab Her twisted trunk was wet with sap I lay beneath and tried to nap Her apple fell upon my lap Oh, what is this, the perfect snack I ate the fruit, the pips and pap My lips were sweet with applejack I couldn’t say if time had passed A lifetime in an empty glass My vision blurred and went to black I dreamed of kings and queens in fact I dreamed of applejack and jam Quintessent seeds in pentagram I dreamed of pleading tiny men And giants who devour them Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-lack I dreamed a giant screamed in wrath Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-lack “Now who’s been with my Applejack!” Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-lack I dreamed a giant screamed in wrath Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-lack “Now who’s been with my Applejack!” When I awoke my limbs were slack I found my path and hobbled back Along the way a stranger asked If I’d ever tasted Applejack Cah-loo-cah-lee Cah-loo-cah-lack Have you ever tasted Applejack

A cross between an apple and a crabapple is sometimes called an “apple crab.” This apple crab, Kerr 591-61*A, is a cross between a Siberian crabapple and a hardy prairie eating apple, balancing flavor and cold hardiness. The fruit is about the size of a walnut, dark red, sweet and tart, small enough to eat whole, pips and all. If you were lucky enough to have this tree in your yard, you’d more likely turn the fruit into jelly, or cider, or applejack if you left the cider out on a winter night and skimmed off the ice. The trunk is twisted and fairytale-like. If you fell asleep under it on this hill on some summer day, you might dream of kings and queens, or pleading tiny men, or mistake the hillside for a sleeping giant shouting “Cah-loo-cah-lee, Cah-loo-cah-lack. Have you ever tasted applejack?”

Birchwood Blackened Eye

The birch leaning over flowering crabapple 1245-64*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I wasn’t wrong I wasn’t right I grew up fighting for life Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone And I grew so tall Tall as the sky Cursed with a birchwood blackened eye Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone And you think me strange Lost pioneer Monster the goodly children fear Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone And it isn’t right It isn’t wrong I live by the lonely giant’s song Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone Cah-loo-cah-lee Whatever will be Cah-loo-cah-lack There’s no turning back Cah-loo-cah-lee Whatever will be Cah-loo-cah-lack There’s no turning back Eat what you kill Reap what you sow Go where the lonely winters blow Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone And you think me cruel A war profiteer Monster the goodly children jeer Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone Cah-loo-cah-lee Whatever will be Cah-loo-cah-lack There’s no turning back Cah-loo-cah-lee Whatever will be Cah-loo-cah-lack There’s no turning back Back to those high school dances Kid romances Stormy weddings Tragic endings She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s already gone And I’ve grown so old Papery white And I’m in a funny mood tonight Moving on, moving on, I’m already gone I did what I did I know what I know I’m home in the drifting winter snow

Birches are pioneer species. They grow quickly in disturbed land and along borders, and they don’t live especially long lives, for trees. They profit from disruption, then move on. As they grow they drop limbs, leaving distinctive blackened eyes against their ghostly white bark. This birch has no tag and no accession number. It grows on the edge of the North Woods in the Arnold Arboretum, where things are a bit wilder, and something about the way it reaches out over crabapple 1245-64*A is suggestive of longing. It’s one of my favorite spots to visit. Back in a little hollow near the North Woods on Peters Hill you can forget for a moment that you’re in a major city. There’s just a birch, leaning out over a crabapple it can’t quite reach, papery white, moving on. Already gone.

A Song For The Chip Yard On Flora Way

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it’s all the same to me a tree’s a tree’s a tree latin name on a little card but we’re all the same in the chip yard it’s all the same to me we’re rain upon the sea grow so tall just to fall so hard we’re all the same in the chip yard i dream a singing saw was calling my name it’s always the same i dream the grapple jaws carry me home it’s all the same you see? it’s plain as plain can be carry me home to leaf litter loam to gravel and stone carry me home i dream a singing saw is calling my name it’s always the same i dream the grapple jaws carry me home to leaf litter loam to gravel and stone carry me home

In Tree, by Matthew Battles, now editor of Arnoldia, the chip yard on Flora Way appears briefly in a parenthetical comment on page 58. Battles describes it this way: “a small, room-like spent granite quarry where piles of pulped and chipped wood rise and fall, steaming from the heat of their own fermentation.” I discovered the chip yard by accident after scrambling up a large rock with my kids to get a better view of the massive white oak towering above the crabapples on Peters Hill. Look one way and you get a beautiful vista of pears, hawthorns, and crabapples, with the Boston skyline in the distance. Look the other way and there are enormous mulch piles at the bottom of a quarry. And at the top, between the two worlds, there’s a small stick house or fort, a dying tree riddled with parchment fungus, and little trails through the brush that I used to explore with my kids when they were young.

Parchment Fungus

Stereum complicatum · Listen on Bandcamp

They say the earth remembers And truth is in the ground And in the dying embers A light is written down A slow decomposition Organic chemistry Taking deposition Of sunlight in a tree On a simple piece of parchment Like pages in a log A reader in the darkness A feeler in the fog And someday where we’re standing It’ll be like we were never here That light cone keeps expanding But there’s a ledger of everything ever that ever disappeared Some say time’s an arrow Buried in the dirt Some say it’s a cycle Decay and then rebirth Some say it’s a parchment Which takes a sort of log A reader in the darkness A feeler in the fog And someday where we’re standing It’ll be like we were never here That light cone keeps expanding But there’s a ledger of everything ever that ever disappeared

An old friend, Thomas Patteson, a musicologist, musician, and writer, came to stay while promoting The Museum of Imaginary Musical Instruments, a book he co-authored with my wife, and bandmate Deirdre Loughridge. On his last day, he asked if we could take a walk through the Arboretum together. As we caught up and I shared something of my newfound passion for trees, he shared a bit of his appreciation for fungi, something I hadn’t thought much about before. Boston had just had days of rain after the first nor’easter of the season, and the fungi were active and fruiting. I was planning to photograph the chip yard and the white oak on Peters Hill from a spot above a large rock formation when we came upon an oak riddled with parchment fungus. After so much rain, the fungus was bright orange and swollen. When I returned to the spot after several dry days, it was shriveled and muted, and perhaps showed more detail. Parchment fungus thrives on dead wood and especially likes oak. It probably didn’t kill this tree. Something else did it in. But the fungus will slowly break down the wood, releasing the chemical energy stored through decades of photosynthesis, almost like a slow fire. Viewed that way, this fruiting parchment fungus is a record of the sunlight that fell on this tree. A ledger.

Sugar Pear

Pyrus pyrifolia 7272-A · Listen on Bandcamp

I was peeling her petals fair I counted uneven numbers there She loves me so I do declare She loves me so, my sugar pear I was breathing the summer air I was eating the fruit she bears We laid the roots of our love affair She loves me so, my sugar pear I was feeling the autumn air Her leaves were falling everywhere She’d never leave me I heard her swear She loved me so, my sugar pear Oh She loves me (She loves you not) I was pressing her petals fair Within a notebook of pages bare A little keepsake of our love affair She loved me so, my sugar pear Oh she loves me (She loves you not) I was peeling her petals fair I counted uneven numbers there She loved me so I do declare She loved me so, my sugar pear

The fruit of Pyrus pyrifolia is astringent and gritty (hence the name “sand pear”) which makes it amazing that this tree is the wild ancestor of the sweet asian pears we buy in the grocery store. This is one of the older trees in the Pear section of the Arboretum with an accession date of 1908. The seed was collected by E. H. Wilson in the wild. Another tree from that same group of seeds 7272-C, which grows on Bussey hill near the explorer’s garden, has been described as “the most beautiful flowering tree in the Arboretum.” And while 7272-A maybe be thought of as the inferior of the two, I like 7272-A quite a lot. Maybe just because I see it more often. So here is a sweet little pop tune for this wild ancestor of our modern sweet pears. You can learn more about 7272-A, 7272-C and Pyrus pyrifolia here.

Blackjack Oak

Quercus marilandica 16849*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I’ve lost a fortune and won it back Took gold from larches and a tamarack Left willows weeping, seen the cherries choke I never play with any blackjack oak I throw my cards up in the air He deals his deuces to the Callery pears Those sappy suckers, he counts their pips Come see him sitting on a pile of chips While their dreams go up in smoke The blackjack oak It takes a knave to know a knave To spot the sharp and see him shave I know he’s shady, he deals you ducks Don’t think he’s lucky, he just holds the nuts So when you see him, move along Playing redwoods ’til the break of dawn That’s why dawn is broke The blackjack oak That tree of heaven on the wall Who let him in? He’s so above it all See the sand pear, he’s a plant Another stickman in the game of chance I tell you, Hondo, you come prepared No going home until your debts are squared Hedge with hawthorns in their game of darts Sit and snivel with the bleeding hearts Willows wallow, cherries choke Go stroke your whiskers with prairie smoke But never go for broke With the blackjack oak

The blackjack oak is a small, scrubby oak that grows in sandy, shallow soil where other oaks won’t. As the tree grows, it has a habit of retaining its lower branches rather than dropping them, contributing to its disheveled appearance. Add to that the fact that the wood is knotty and not considered very useful, and you get a tree that is not disliked, but not exactly adored either. The leaves of the blackjack oak have a distinctive pear or duck-foot shape. The pear-shaped leaves of this particular blackjack oak, planted in the pear section on Peters Hill, have a certain rhyme or resonance with its neighbors: Hondo pears, sand pears, and the often-disliked root suckering Callery pears. And of course, pears make me think of pairs, and twos (deuces) and pairs of twos (ducks) in card games. Though this tree doesn’t get its name from the card game, and its name predates the game blackjack by well over a century, I couldn’t help chasing the association down through every tree/card-game pun I could think of. Hopefully the blackjack oak doesn’t mind.

Redwood Giant

Sequoiadendron giganteum 1320-72*A · Listen on Bandcamp

A world within a redwood tree A castle in the canopy Don’t look down Don’t look down A world within a redwood tree A little flight of fantasy Don’t look down Don’t look down Don’t look down Don’t look down Ancient titans Moss and lichens Strong yet silent The redwood giant With their heads in the clouds Looking up, looking out Standing tall Standing proud Don’t look down You’re in a redwood tree Climbing the canopy Saying “How can this be?” Like it’s a fantasy, it’s a fantasy You’re in a redwood tree Climbing the canopy Saying “How can this be?” Like it’s a fantasy, it’s a fantasy A world within a redwood tree A castle in the canopy Don’t look down Don’t look down A world within a redwood tree A little flight of fantasy Don’t look down Don’t look down Don’t look down Don’t look down Ancient titans Moss and lichens Strong yet silent The redwood giant With their heads in the clouds Looking up, looking out Standing tall Standing proud Don’t look down You’re in a redwood tree Climbing the canopy Saying “How can this be?” Like it’s a fantasy, it’s a fantasy You’re in a redwood tree Climbing the canopy Saying “How can this be?” Like it’s a fantasy Don’t look down

Giant sequoia 1320-72*A comes into view as you walk along Hemlock Hill Road, which runs next to Bussey Brook. Framed by the conifer collection, the tree looks majestic at a distance, with upturned limbs sprouting from its flared base. Not the tallest tree on the ridge, but the most stately. With a potential lifespan of several thousand years, 1320-72*A is “one of the few trees on the landscape that could outlast our thousand-year lease,” observed Matthew Battles in Arnoldia. Native to California’s Sierra Nevada, the tree is somewhat out of its element here, contending with Boston’s humid summers, frigid winters, nor’easters, lightning, drought, climate change. It faces a hard road to 1,000 years, but say this tree beats the odds. Imagine that time, a millennium from now, when a giant sequoia towers over Roslindale. The crown is thinning in places, a fungus appears here and there on the massive tree. A researcher climbs far into the canopy of this ancient titan to study the ecosystem that has developed there: moss and lichens, a world within a redwood tree. It’s like a fantasy, just don’t look down.

The Grand Fir

Abies grandis 216-2015*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Look how our fir tree looks Right out of storybooks Each little mirrored sphere Shining so crystal clear Like it’s a storybook That’s how our fir tree looks Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Everything crystal clear Nothing to dread or fear Look at the firmament Like it was heaven-sent Do you ever feel it move Because sometimes I swear I do Hosanna, hosanna in the highest And if you draw me near I think I might die right here Seeing our whole damn life Glow in the Christmas lights Old photographs you took Hanging by tiny hooks Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Still there’s an empty spot C’mon, let’s cross it off Go get the Christmas box From back of the storage lot I’m going to lift you up You’re going to reach the top Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Look, there’s an angel there Where there was only air Though that is hardly fair Because angels are everywhere And sometimes I feel them move Do you ever feel them too? Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Hosanna, hosanna in the highest And sometimes I feel them move I reach out into the blue And just try to feel them move And sometimes I swear I do Do you ever feel that too? Because right now I swear I do Hosanna, hosanna in the highest Hosanna, hosanna in the highest

The grand fir is so named for its size. Native to the Pacific Northwest, mature grand firs can reach heights of 200 feet or more. Despite their size they have comparatively weak wood, which paradoxically worked to their advantage as the old-growth forests of the Northwest were logged. Many mature grand firs were left standing while their sturdier neighbors were felled for timber, grand firs that were logged were mainly used for pulp. The needles of the grand fir have a pleasant citrus smell, and these trees are among those commonly used as Christmas trees on the West Coast, where they grow well and quickly. Here in Boston you’re more likely to see balsam fir or Fraser fir, which are better suited to our climate. This young grand fir, 216-2015*A, has been planted next to a fallen tree. A nurse log, perhaps? Clearly it’s a very intentional placement along Conifer Path, right beside a large fallen tree. I wonder if that placement might provide the young tree a bit of shade and moisture and help it grow in our challenging climate. A microclimate? Whatever the horticultural reason for this planting, I can tell you how it is used by Arboretum visitors. This fallen log, beside the young West Coast Christmas tree and the dawn redwoods on Conifer Path, is a contemplative spot for people to sit, to ponder, to reach out into the blue and just try to feel the move.

Blue Spruce

Picea pungens ‘Speks’ 659-67*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Tell me what to do I haven’t got a clue I could use a boost Talking to a blue spruce I’m inverted, look at you Is that you diving in a blue pool I must look to you a true fool Talking to a blue spruce Standing on my head Walking where the clouds tread Needles evergreen I close my eyes, they seem red Tell me what to do I haven’t got a clue I could use a boost Talking to a blue spruce Looking up at you Rocking like a loose tooth Can you pull a string or two Talking to a blue spruce Standing on my head Walking where the clouds tread Needles evergreen I close my eyes, they seem red I wish I might, I wish I may Orange is the warmth of the sun today Blue is the hue of a dragonfly I wish I May, June, July Green is the sheen of my inward sight Now I see you steered me right

Yew Tree

Taxus cuspidata 17404*A · Listen on Bandcamp

By the boughs of a yew tree I was pierced by her beauty And I felt it acutely Like an arrow went through me By the boughs of a yew tree I was pierced by her beauty And I felt it acutely Like an arrow went through me Killed in the line Before our time Forever mine Died on the vine Before our time Forever mine By the boughs of a yew tree She’s looking right through me Like she never knew me Like she never slew me Killed in the line Before our time Forever mine Died on the vine Before our time Forever mine And who sings the eulogy When no one remembers me And who sings the eulogy When no one remembers me Except for the boughs of a yew tree I’m holding her loosely She’s lit like a movie I’m pierced by her beauty The boughs of a yew tree Killed in the line Before our time Forever mine Died on the vine Before our time Forever mine

Almost every part of the yew tree is poisonous to humans: the roots, the bark, the wood, the needles. You’ll commonly find yews planted in graveyards and churchyards, and their strong, springy wood makes excellent longbows for archers. No matter how you look at this tree, toxicologically, sociologically, teleologically, it carries associations with death, or the afterlife. Along Conifer Path before you reach the hornbeams, there’s a grove of yews that forms something of a small room or tent. A chapel, perhaps. Wander inside and you’ll see an umbrella pine ascending through a low ceiling of yew branches. The ground is soft, and it seems to me there’s a hushed quality here. Someone has arranged a series of logs as a set of benches, perhaps to hold classes or discussions. To me, this small chapel of churchyard trees is one of the more magical places to visit in the Arboretum. And there in the center, a Japanese cousin of the English churchyard yew, the piercingly beautiful 17404*A.

Rhododendron Dell

Rhododendron ‘Cadis’ 1105-72*B · Listen on Bandcamp

What could be wrong with living so well With lifting her up wherever she fell Burnishing talents, her drive to excel In rhododendron dell My little girl, she’s raising hell In heavenly pink and purple pastels Flying her colors that hide in a shell In rhododendron dell And I’m just a fool, I’m under her spell I try to act cool, I flip my lapel I know she’s through it, though she never tells In rhododendron dell Let’s take a hike, my mademoiselle Look at the sky, it’s clear as a bell And what could be wrong with living so well In rhododendron dell What could be wrong with living so well With lifting her up wherever she fell Burnishing talents, her drive to excel In rhododendron dell My little girl, she’s raising hell In heavenly pink and purple pastels Flying her colors that hide in a shell In rhododendron dell In rhododendron dell In rhododendron dell In rhododendron dell

You don’t take Rhododendron Path in order to arrive anywhere. It’s only around 250 feet long, a modest trail running parallel to Valley Road. By the time you step onto Rhododendron Path, you’ve already decided that today the journey is the destination. Entering where Hemlock Hill Road meets Valley Road, you’ll leave the hard pavement for a spongy mulch trail. Rhododendrons on both sides. On your right, Bussey Brook runs through Rhododendron Dell. There are small steps leading down to the water for those who want a closer look. If you’re daring, you might try to hop stone to stone across the small brook, or you can take the little wooden bridge. It’s a tiny path, walking at a normal pace, you’re done in a minute or two. But say you were with small children during a global pandemic, and everything was closed except for a nearby arboretum. You could conceivably kill an entire afternoon playing by Bussey Brook there at the base of Hemlock Hill, time slowing until a minute’s worth of travel stretches into hours. And you might ask yourself: what could be wrong with living so well?

The Parasol Beech

Fagus sylvatica ‘Tortuosa’ 14599*A · Listen on Bandcamp

My mother performed trapeze At a circus at Rémilly And my father was a contortionist With a tortured man’s physique And twirled the parasol On the grounds of the carnival And I tossed my hair for the legionaries Who dared to dance with me On the floor of the grand marquee To the roar of the calliope We’d say such stuff would make you blush When we whispered quietly He said that he’d care for me Always be there for me Like sunlight that falls on a tree And I felt so very tall Under my parasol When he lifted me off of my feet On the day the eclipse was reached In the shade of a mutant beech My lover laughed and he photographed The shadows cast on me He said that he’d care for me Always be there for me Like sunlight that falls on a tree And I felt so very tall Under my parasol When he lifted me off of my feet

Along Beech Path, as you walk around Bussey Hill, you’ll meet the parasol beech, Fagus sylvatica ‘Tortuosa’ 14599*A, one of the most photographed trees at the Arboretum. It stands just off the trail behind a little rope that keeps visitors from compacting the soil around its roots. Look under the hemispherical canopy and you’ll see two metal columns supporting its contorted limbs. All the trees in the Arboretum are well cared for, this one especially so. “Tortuosa” means twisted or winding, from the same root that gives us torque, tortuous, contort, and torture. The tree is a naturally occurring mutation of the European beech, Fagus sylvatica, and descends from a tree that grew in a forest in Rémilly, France. It is small in stature but striking: its limbs twist and twirl outward, and even self-graft to form loops. The Arboretum’s director, Ned Friedman, tells a story of standing under this tree during the 2017 partial solar eclipse in Boston and photographing the crescent patterns that fell on its bark as sunlight passed through the gaps in its canopy like thousands of pinhole cameras. If you look the tree up in the Arboretum Explorer and scroll through the 100 pictures of this tree, you can see some of those images. Beeches in New England have been beset by the one-two punch of beech bark disease (BBD) and beech leaf disease (BLD), not to mention climate change and drought. Walking my neighborhood over the past decade or so, I’ve seen several mature beeches come down. And perhaps because of that, I feel a little rush of gratitude whenever I pass a healthy mature beech. Passing this old Tortuosa, I have the sense of a treasured elder, diligently cared for in a time of great challenges.

Bookish Girl

Fagus sylvatica ‘Pendula’ 22746*A · Listen on Bandcamp

you might think that she’s a bookish girl she’s a square within a crooked world yes, you think she’s perpendicular you never take a second look at her you think the cover tells you everything her little binders with the triple ring and those dividers and with the labeling a label never tells you anything but walk within these leaves oh, her ink runs deep she writes fantasies as the beech tree bleeds she writes poetry like the fairy queen walk within these leaves where the beech tree bleeds people say that she’s peculiar people try to make a fool of her they maybe read a couple sentences but they never get the references they dismiss her as a bookish girl her rows of cursive in a crooked swirl her every letter curvilinear and ever flowing like a signature but within these leaves oh, her ink runs deep she writes fantasies as the beech tree bleeds she reads poetry like the fairy queen walk within these leaves where the beech tree bleeds

There’s some debate about this, but it seems plausible at least that the words “beech” and “book” have a common ancestor. While only slightly similar sounding in modern English, the words look more alike in Old English (bōc/bēce) and even more similar in Proto-Germanic (*bōks/*bōkō). The pattern appears in other languages as well: German Buch/Buche, Dutch boek/beuk, Old Norse bók meaning both. It’s thought that this is because people used to scratch runes in beechwood tablets or bark. I say used to, but in fact people are still carving into beech trees today. Unlike oaks, pines and elms, whose bark furrows and flakes as they age, the thin gray bark of the beech stretches as the tree grows, giving it the appearance of a smooth continuous piece of paper. And because the tree never sheds its outer bark, the marks stay. The wounds heal with a dark scar tissue that only increases the contrast with the light bark. Virgil tells of a shepherd who carves his verses in beech bark, and there was a famous beech tree in Oxfordshire, England, known as “The Poem Tree” that had 20 lines carved into it by Joseph Tubb in the 1840s. Carving is genuinely bad for the tree. Similar to a cut in our skin, cutting into a tree creates an opportunity for infection and decay. And beeches are already beset by disease: beech bark disease (BBD), which has been here for over a century, and more recently beech leaf disease (BLD). So etymology and tradition notwithstanding, it would be wise to refrain from carving in trees, especially the beeches. That said, it clearly happens. Consider Fagus sylvatica ‘Pendula’ 22746*A, a weeping beech along Beech Path near the ruins of the Bussey mansion. Ducking under its canopy is like entering a tent, a cool secret hangout. Clearly people have come here for decades, and like the walls of some indie rock venue, the beech has been marked on every available surface. Is this a celebration of the tree? A mockery of it? Not thinking of it at all? I’m never sure. But this does seem to be a tree that inspires poetry. Sheryl White writes in the pages of Arnoldia about finding this tree while looking for inspirations for new poems: “Composing in my mind, I parted the emerald curtain of branches. Inside was a space of light and awe.”

Ghost Tree

Fagus sylvatica 14588*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Sometimes I see his ghost Darkening the old grove Silhouetted in the sun’s glow Sometimes he wears a shroud Or he’s floating like a rain cloud Throwing shadows on the old house His beard is wild, he’s lost his child I hear him cry My son, my son You are to me As sunlight to a tree As sunlight to a tree I have wandered in the woods I have traveled to my childhood I am standing where I once stood When I come upon his ghost Leaning up against a fence post I can almost touch him, almost His beard is wild, he’s found his child I hear him cry My son, my son You are to me As sunlight to a tree As sunlight to a tree He takes me by the hand He sings a song of good land “I was standing where you now stand” My beard is wild, my little child You make me cry I wander through the trees You should hear the songs they sing me I am walking through a deep dream I can see the life you lead As I see the boy who loved me As I see the man you’ll still be Your beard is wild, you have a child He makes you cry My son, my son You are to me As sunlight to a tree As sunlight to a tree As sunlight to a tree

In 2024–2025, the Arboretum hosted an augmented reality show by artist Sonia Ralston, who studied photographs of beloved trees that had died in order to create 3-D digital models of them. At the spot where each tree once stood, visitors could scan a QR code with their smartphones and see a digital doppelgänger superimposed on the landscape. The exhibit was called “Ghost Trees.” The QR codes are gone now, but the one for tree 14588*A was mounted about waist high on a post near the ruins of the Bussey mansion. I never saw the tree in AR, as my Nokia flip phone wouldn’t know what to do with a QR code, but I wrote down the number and later looked up this beloved beech to learn a bit about a tree that I never knew in life and only half remember, if at all. 14588*A stood on Beech Path, near the weeping beech 22746*A. It succumbed to beech bark disease (BBD) in 2018, which means I would have walked by it in its last few years of life, as I wandered the Arboretum with my then-small children. I was far more plant-blind then and have no memory of this tree, though given its placement I’m almost certain I stood under it. In photographs there’s little evidence that it was carved, as some of the other beeches have been, though I also notice that many of the photographs look upward toward the canopy. Perhaps any carving was kept discreetly out of frame. The artist’s 3-D rendering contains none that I saw. The rendering’s skin has the smooth gray look of a kindle e-reader, not the dog eared thrift book look of the physical trees. Annotated with scribbled marginalia. I wonder how literally to take the title “Ghost Trees.” Speaking of a different tree, a paperbark maple in the Explorers Garden, Peter Del Tredici says this: “Not only do you have these amazing plants that are the legacy of these collectors, but I like to think of the fact that there’s sort of these ghosts lurking behind these trees. These are the ghosts of the people that collected these plants and brought them here, because it’s a lot of work…” Ghosts of trees, ghosts of caretakers lurking behind trees, perhaps even those who stood under them, and my own ghostly half-remembrance of this particular tree.

The Meadow

Bussey Brook Meadow · Listen on Bandcamp

Looking up at a cloud Looking down at Bussey Meadow At the paths through the grass Where the city people go On the trails to the tracks To the trains near Bussey Meadow Watch the trains, they’re the veins Of the city far below I’m as lonely as a cloud Looking down at Bussey Meadow I’m as lonely as a cloud In the city far below Looking up at a cloud Looking down at Bussey Meadow Cottontails run the trails Where the ox-eye daisy grows Drooping sedge, turtlehead Bittersweet, the tree of heaven Silky weeds, princess trees In the meadow far below I’m as lonely as a cloud Looking down at Bussey Meadow I’m as lonely as a cloud In the city far below Little cloud looking down Come and meet me in the meadow Little wisp set adrift Where the gentle breezes blow White as chalk like the top Of a lonely stalk of yarrow Little cloud looking down At the meadow far below I’m as lonely as a cloud Looking down at Bussey Meadow I’m as lonely as a cloud In the city far below

Return to the base of Beech Path, where Hemlock Hill Road intersects Valley Road, and imagine things went differently. Instead of ascending Bussey Hill past the photogenic parasol beech, the secret club within the weeping branches, and the digitized ghost near the ruins of the Bussey mansion. Imagine the trees wore no tags, weren’t memorialized as 3D renders but imperfectly remembered as the blurry backdrop of a hurried commute. Imagine trees being trees, invasive and native species left to work out their own balance with a changing climate in disturbed soil. Watched carefully, but only tended slightly. Wander, lonely as a cloud, towards South Street Gate and cross the road to the Blackwell Footpath, through the urban wild of Bussey Brook Meadow.

Ox Eye Daisy

Leucanthemum vulgare · Listen on Bandcamp

Ox-eye daisy Wide-eyed and crazy She’s gay as a daisy too Wish you would tell me what I should do To get through to you Ox-eye daisy Dew-eyed lady Won’t you save me from myself For me there’s no one else But you I’ve loved other lasses I’ve rolled in the grasses I won’t deny it’s true But, daisy, so have you So blind to my passes In those O&X glasses But if you only knew The things we could do (instrumental) So blind to my passes In those O&X glasses But if you only knew The things that we could get up to Ox-eye daisy Wide-eyed and crazy She’s gay as a daisy too Wish you would tell me what I could do To get through to you

Homer uses the epithet “ox-eyed” to refer to Hera throughout the Iliad, and while it might seem strange to us today to compare a goddess’s beauty to a cow’s, it does make some sense. Historically, oxen were measures of wealth and prestige, and the eye of the ox is captivating. Liquid, dark, long-lashed. The word daisy comes from “day’s eye,” referring to the way the smaller daisies open with sunrise and close with sunset, and, to my thinking, perhaps also the way the flower resembles the sun itself, which could be considered the day’s eye. In writing this song about the meadow wildflower ox-eye daisy I couldn’t resist working in references to eyes and eyewear, in particular the Japanese glasses brand O&X. I have no idea what the O and X refer to. A hug and a kiss? Tic-tac-toe? But I like to imagine the letters might be a subtle nod to the white-armed goddess herself. And while I doubt that’s what the company’s founders had in mind, it’s very much what I thought of when I wrote this song for the ox eye daisy.

Bittersweet

Celastrus orbiculatus · Listen on Bandcamp

I’m bittersweet like a memory I can’t bear to be alone You invited me to your canopy Like a tragedy to your home I’m bittersweet like the memory Of how you’ll never be the same Don’t pity me for my beggary There’s a practicality to pain You know the willow doesn’t mourn the elm She cries for you, because you need her to You know the chestnut didn’t kill itself He died for you, because you needed him to Just like I need you I can throttle you like you want me to I can hobble you with fear I can mottle you, leave you black and blue I can topple you, my dear So you want to weave the green world’s gown It’s all around, it’s all around So you want to see the green man’s crown He wears it now, he wears it now, that’s why you bow It’s bittersweet The green world is bittersweet The green world is bittersweet

Oriental bittersweet, a strangling woody vine, is among the most destructive invasive plants in MA today, infamous for its ability to girdle mature trees and even topple them. The bark of trees which has been freed from the coils of oriental bittersweet can appear discolored, mottled, giving it the appearance of a bruise. Despite its dubious status today, oriental bittersweet was at one time enthusiastically planted as an ornamental and recommended for use along highways to prevent erosion.

Tree Of Heaven

Ailanthus altissima · Listen on Bandcamp

The sisters seven They beg and they plead To the tree of heaven In their hour of need But the tree of heaven Grows wild and free It’s the tree of heaven What else can it be? And you can blame me You can shame me But what else can I be In all humility, all humility I’m heavenly The sisters seven They whine and they weep But the tree of heaven Knows they sowed what they reap The tree of heaven Grows wild and free It’s the tree of heaven What else can it be? And you can blame me You can shame me You can put a hex on me In all humility, all humility I’m heavenly The sisters seven They favor the meek But the tree of heaven Will not suffer the weak It’s the tree of heaven It won’t be cut at the knees It’s the tree of heaven It holds its riches in seeds And you can blame me You could shame me You could fell me with such ease In all humility, all humility I’m heavenly And you, who are you To fell me with such ease The irony, the irony Is heavenly Heavenly as a thousand downy seeds On the evening breeze The irony is heavenly

Ailanthus altissima has a bit of a bad reputation. It’s invasive here, weedy, and very aggressive. Though in this location where vegetation and businesses have struggled to survive, this tree is thriving against all odds. It provides a useful service in my opinion, and I’m grateful for its presence. You can learn more about Tree Of Heaven and many other weedy plants in Peter Del Tredici’s excellent book Wild Urban Plants of the Northeast:

Princess Tree

Paulownia tomentosa · Listen on Bandcamp

Goodnight, my darling Time to go to sleep Goodnight, my darling Go and brush your teeth Now don’t you try to trick me You’re sneaky as a thief Goodnight, my darling My darling princess tree And dream like a little chickadee Safe inside her nest in a little princess tree And dream like a tiny chickadee Safe inside her nest in a little princess tree A little princess tree A little princess tree You’ll always be with me In dreams My darling princess tree Goodnight, my darling Time to go to sleep Time to turn your lights off Not another peep Goodnight, my darling Kiss me on the cheek Goodnight, my darling You’ll always be with me In dreams like a little chickadee Safe inside her nest in a tiny princess tree In dreams like a little chickadee Safe inside her nest in a little princess tree A little princess tree A little princess tree You’ll always be with me In dreams My darling princess tree

Yarrow

Achillea millefolium · Listen on Bandcamp

Flutter by, butterfly Never mind your sorrow Take a walk with me On a lonely stalk of yarrow No need to worry now, baby Save your worries for tomorrow On the top of a stalk of yarrow Flutter by, butterfly Never mind your sorrow Summer’s over soon And those blooms are only borrowed No need to worry, baby Save your worries for tomorrow Chalky white Like the top of Kilimanjaro Butterfly On a lonely stalk of yarrow No need to worry now, baby Save your worries for tomorrow On the top of a stalk of yarrow

Dandelion

Taraxacum officinale · Listen on Bandcamp

I saw a dandelion Lying in the sun He didn’t seem to care About anything or anyone A dandelion Like the fabled king of beasts With a belly full of meat His jagged leaves like lion’s teeth And the silly lion sang to me… Tick tock, how the time flies Sunset to moonrise The seasons of life Blood moons over blowflies Bees under blue skies Oh, but it’s alright Oh, but it’s alright But he’s a silly lion His seeds are on the air He doesn’t seem to care The breezes blow them everywhere He’s a silly lion Wild as a weed The meadow’s majesty He sings to me through lion’s teeth (chorus, then instrumental) Tick tock, how the time flies Sunset to moonrise The seasons of life Milk witches at midnight Priest’s crown in sunlight Oh, but it’s alright Oh, but it’s alright But he’s a silly lion Just a puffball in the breeze With a balding head of seeds Should I pull him up or leave him be?

Dandelion comes from the French “dent de lion” and refers to the plant’s jagged leaf shape, which is reminiscent of a lion’s fangs. And while it’s not in the etymology exactly, the bright yellow flower is plainly reminiscent of a lion’s mane. “Milk witches” and “priest’s crown” are also folk names for the flower. Sometimes puffball seed heads are used in children’s games of divination, or to make a wish, or to play at telling the time. You can make wine from the flowers, which I have in fact done! (And written a separate song about) The flower is considered a bit of a weed, and also a somewhat joyous sight. In my own yard, sometimes I pull them up, and sometimes I leave them be.

Hemlock Hill

Listen on Bandcamp

Do you remember the top of Hemlock Hill We could have been together, but now we never will Nothing lasts forever, I don’t like standing still I think of you whenever I’m at the top of Hemlock Hill And I’m walking down, down into the deep, deep gorge And I’m walking down where you won’t see me anymore We spent a whole September on the top of Hemlock Hill October and November we were haunting Somerville When we hit December, I felt that winter chill Nothing lasts forever on the top of Hemlock Hill So I’m walking down, down to that deep, deep gorge And I’m walking down where you won’t see me anymore On the tippy top of hemlock The hemlocks The tippy top of Hemlock Hill On the tippy top of hemlock The tippy top of Hemlock Hill And I’m walking down, down into the deep, deep gorge And I’m walking down where you won’t see me anymore Do you remember the top of Hemlock Hill We could have been together, but now we never will When we hit December, I took that poison pill I think of you whenever I’m at the top of Hemlock Hill And I’m walking down, down into the deep, deep gorge And I’m walking down where you won’t see me anymore

Stewartias

Stewartia rostrata 769-36*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She wore white like the moon The Stewartia bloom But it ended too soon, as they say When the bride kissed the groom The Stewartia bloomed And they danced in a fool’s cabaret She was young and she loved As Stewartia does With her first little buds late in May She was watered by tears Over so many years And it all brought her here to this day Go and kiss her, my dear As the world disappears And everything’s fading away Go and kiss her, my dear She is wilting, I fear Her blooms only here for a day

Lost In Azaleas

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Isn’t it weird Finding you here Blazing a trail Lost in azaleas Tell me no lies Baby blue eyes Puppy dog tails Lost in azaleas Feverish dreams Running through streams Rainy day snails Lost in azaleas Write what you know Drift with the snow Miniature scales Lost in azaleas Trillium leaves Counting by threes Rainwater pail Lost in azaleas Tell me no lies Baby blue eyes Blazing a trail Lost in azaleas Isn’t it weird Finding you here Blazing a trail Lost in azaleas Tell me no lies Baby blue eyes Puppy dog tails Lost in azaleas

“Lost In Azaleas” is for the small azalea that grows next to my sun porch, and somehow composed an entire world when my kids were small.

Hickory

Carya ovata 12909*D · Listen on Bandcamp

Take me high, take me high, let me fly, little chickadee High, take me high, let me climb you, old hickory I’m right at the end of my line I see nowhere to go but up I’ve seen men lose their minds in these times, little chickadee Seen men lose their minds through some kind of wicked trickery I’m right at the end of my line I see nowhere to go but up Take me high, take me high, let me climb you, old hickory Seen men wander blind in these times lacking sympathy I’m right at the end of my line I see nowhere to go but up Take me high, take me high, let me fly, little chickadee I see men with no reason or rhyme acting cynically I’m right at the end of my line I see nowhere to go but up Take me high Let me climb Take me high Let me climb You old hickory (synth solo) Take me high Let me climb Take me high Let me climb You old hickory I see men with the signs of their tribes, shallow gimmickry See men cribbing lines from their scribes, hollow mimicry I’m right at the end of my line I see nowhere to go but up Take me high Let me climb Take me high Let me climb You old hickory

English Walnut

Juglans regia 14767*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Before I could ask He summed it all up And tucked himself into the shell of a nut Happily shut in the shell of a walnut He named himself king of an infinite space Ridiculous thing, silly brain in a case Happily shut in the shell of a walnut What a nut A walnut Look what the wrinkles wrote on his face Straining his brain while he’s planted in place Tragically shut in the shell of a walnut Will he come out well? Nobody knows We’ll just have to see if ever he grows Out of his shell, the shell of a walnut What a nut A walnut Will he come out well? Nobody knows We’ll just have to see if ever he grows Out of his shell, the shell of a walnut What’s your theory of mind Have you reason or rhyme Can you see the sublime Or are you a walnut

Unpacking the walnut. Walnuts have long been associated with the head and brain. As Pliny the Elder wrote in 77 CE, “Walnuts have received their name in Greek from being oppressive to the head; for, in fact, the emanations from the tree itself and the leaves penetrate to the brain.” Likely because the nut itself bears a resemblance to the human brain with its mirrored lobes. There’s folklore and folk magic suggesting that sleeping under a walnut will bring bad dreams. A footnote in the Bostock-Riley translation of Pliny notes, “It is still a common notion, Fée says, that it is highly injurious to sleep beneath a walnut-tree,” citing the French botanist Antoine Laurent Apollinaire Fée. There’s also an association between the walnut and Jove, the Roman king of the gods and ruler of the vast expanse of the sky. The scientific name Juglans translates as the acorn of Jove. So when Hamlet, famous for being in his own head, says, “O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams,” it seems to me that perhaps Shakespeare has packed three associations with the walnut into a single line. In any case, it’s interesting to think that this particular English Walnut 14767*A was once bounded by a nutshell, and now, having outgrown its casing, is a towering presence, holding its own in a grove of nearby oaks.

Cutting

Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Chabo-Hiba’ 1100-71 · Listen on Bandcamp

My little bonsai High on my shelf Nothing comes freely To anyone else I carry your water I dig your well Now don’t you go growing For anyone else And I shudder to think Who you would be If you never met me My little bonsai Listen to me And I’m going to teach you How it will be Let’s see your roots now I’ll give them a trim You’re my little cutting I like keeping you slim And I shudder to think Who you could be If you ever left me (guitar solo) My little bonsai No branch for bird Oh, what have I done to you There isn’t a word My little bonsai High on my shelf If you’re ever lonely Just look at yourself And I shudder to think Who you would be If you ever left me

Many of the bonsai in the Larz Anderson collection have colorful unofficial nicknames: octopus, straight arm, tuning fork, mother, child, boat, etc. Bonsai 1100-71 was nicknamed “cutting,” and unlike some of the centuries-old bonsai in the collection, it’s relatively young, started in the 1970s by bonsai curator Connie Derderian. Bonsai are not genetically small trees. They can be started as cuttings of full-sized trees and then kept in their beautiful, diminutive state through active management: pruning, trimming roots, bracing limbs with wires and fishing line. If you look closely at the trees, you can sometimes see these braces, which keep the limbs growing outward (like on an older tree) instead of upward (as they would on a young tree). This helps give the illusion of a full-sized tree in miniature. Perhaps the most interesting thing about 1100-71 is that a cutting was taken from it and propagated into a full-sized tree, (A bonsai in reverse?) 1100-71*A, which is planted right next to the bonsai collection. The thought of that, two genetic clones, one a full-sized tree, one a bonsai, made me think of paths not taken and prompted the question: “Who would you be if you never met me?”

Envious Ivy

Hedera helix 133-2003*MASS · Listen on Bandcamp

Green was the iris of her lover’s eyes Green as the valley where his body lies Where the envious ivy and villainous vine They wind and they climb like the wicked web of lies That took her lover’s life Wise is the iris, tender is the rose Shy is violet, a beauty to behold Envious ivy and villainous vine How they wind and they climb like a wicked web of lies That took her lover’s life She was to marry, she wanted to elope She trusted me to carry their secret in a note But I envy as ivy and I’m willful as vine And I wind and I climb with my wicked web of lies I changed her lover’s mind I told her lover that love had run its course She’d found another, I’d seen her ride his horse She has another lover, for I’ve seen them ride How they ride and they ride, and this played upon his mind Until he cast her hand aside Gay is the daisy, vicious is the rose Frail are the branches beneath the ice and snow He climbed upon the branches and strung them with twine How he winds and he winds in a wicked web of lies That’s how her lover died Silence in the chapel, sorrow in the pews Sullen is the graveyard, and solemn is the yew And I’m on the headstone, for that is where I grew Where I wind and I climb like a wicked web of lies And now her lover’s mine

Villainous Vine

Celastrus orbiculatus 720-86*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I fell on the woods Like an uprooted pine The shape of my thought Like a tangle of twine In the knots that you find in the mind I came to a tree I was riddled with vine Together they looked Like the scene of a crime In their growth they were both in decline You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous vine Needle and leaf Shadow and shine Look at the branch Of the pitiful pine How he stoops as if losing his spine Look how he droops See how she climbs Instinctively loops in a noose for the pine The end is a matter of time You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous… Villainous, villainous vine Merciless, pitiless vine You treacherous twine Villainous vine (instrumental) Open my palm And follow the lines Narrative threads In the branches of time Perhaps there’s a meaning implied I wander the woods For a natural sign To capture a glimpse Of the larger design In the physical mirror of the magical mind And here, very clear, what I feared I would find Oh, ominous sign, dynamic sublime Oh, pitiful pine and the villainous vine Treacherous twine Villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous, the villainous Murderous vine Merciless, pitiless vine Treacherous twine Villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous vine You’re mine, you’re mine, said the villainous, the villainous vine

Judi Stench

The corpse flower of the same name · Listen on Bandcamp

The poor little wench She was killed with a wrench Left a horrible scent in the room When she died Her suitors circled like flies For a whiff of the corpse flower’s bloom Larger than life She never wanted to wife They proposed but she always refused She was tall Always dressed for a ball Drew an X on her chest with perfume Judi Stench in the greenhouse Who could the killer be now? Murder will scream out loud Was it mean Dr. Green Found alone at the scene With the motive and means, I presume Or the groundskeeper Brown He’s always skulking around He was found with a key to her room Or the fair Lady Faye She was jealous, they say And as cold as a day on the moon Or her grandfather Ned Had said he wanted her dead And now he keeps changing his tune Judi Stench in the greenhouse Who could the killer be now? Murder will scream out loud The suspects were judged They were dragged through the mud And she grew warm to the touch in her tomb Her corpse a disguise She had caught all the flies She’s leading them all to their doom Judi Stench in the greenhouse Who could the killer be now? Murder will scream out loud On your ticket a time Like a thin alibi And you line up with all the accused Come on in, little fly Because the corpse flower died And you’re guilty ’til otherwise proved Judi Stench in the greenhouse Who could the killer be now? Murder will scream out loud

The two corpse plants, Amorphophallus titanum, are held a bit apart from the rest of the collection at the arboretum. For starters, they’re known as “Dame Judi Stench” and “Pepé Le Pew” rather than by accession numbers. And they don’t seem to appear in the databases I usually search, like the Arboretum Explorer, making the corpse flowers something of digital ghosts. I say “corpse flower” because that’s how they’re usually described. When one blooms it does look like a single enormous flower, but in reality the frilly, petal-like skirt is a modified leaf called a spathe. Hidden at the base of the tall central spike are the actual flowers of the corpse plant, hundreds of them, tiny and petal-less. When the plant blooms, which takes years, it warms to nearly body temperature and releases the rotting-flesh smell that gives it its name. That distinctive scent of rotting flesh draws flies, as well as curious arboretum members, who can reserve timed tickets to view and smell it.

The Wych Elm

Ulmus glabra 391-2001*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She’s supple as a wych elm Starts trouble in the dream realms Black cats in her stairwell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell She’s supple as a wych elm Flies besoms in a chandelle Dines on wine caps and chanterelles I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell She’s supple as a wych elm Starts trouble in the dream realms Twig figures in a glass bell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell I’m under her spell

The “wych” in wych elm means pliable, not “witch” as in witchcraft, and yet this tree does have some supernatural connotations. In Walter Scott’s poem The Lady of the Lake, the author makes an appeal to a “witch-elm” which holds the harp of the north that the poet will awaken to tell us his tale. “Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan’s spring” And then at the end of the poem the poet bids the harp return to a “wizard-elm.” “Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm!” Thinking of these two trees, or possibly one tree, had me seeking out 391-2001*A and 391-2001*B, two wych elms that grow above the lilac section. Wondering to myself which wych was witch.

Lilac On A Sunday Morning

Syringa × chinensis ‘Lilac Sunday’ 127-96*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning Sweet and tragic as a mother mourning She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning Sweet and tragic as a mother mourning And Monday sings her moody blues Tuesday wears her ruby shoes Wednesday sips her cool chartreuse Thursday drips in gold and jewels Friday, pink, the lover’s hue She plants a kiss as lovers do Saturday the fateful news In black and white, the painful truth She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning Sweet and tragic as a mother mourning She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning Sweet and tragic as a mother mourning And Monday sings her moody blues Tuesday wears her ruby shoes Wednesday sips her cool chartreuse Thursday drips in gold and jewels Friday, pink, the lover’s hue She plants a kiss as lovers do Saturday the fateful news In black and white, the painful truth She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning Open casket with the flowers adorning The end was sudden and it gave no warning She’s a lilac on a Sunday morning And Monday sings her moody blues Tuesday wears her ruby shoes Wednesday burns like cool chartreuse Thursday sells her gold and jewels Friday, flush, the lover’s hue I lay a wreath as lovers do Saturday the fateful news

President Lincoln

Syringa vulgaris ‘President Lincoln’ 63-2015*B · Listen on Bandcamp

Monday sings her moody blues the swooning evening star intrudes on merry may, the flower moon below the elms where lilacs bloom in purple blues, and pinkish red the ashen white for honored dead his walnut casket lined with lead that stovepipe hat upon his head I see him now, the martyr slain but the son beside is sharper pain and lilacs meet this solemn train that bears the boys through Illinois across the plain the solemn train in funeral black my blossom thrown across its track the truest of the blues in fact its the hue that other lilacs lack I see him now, our martyr slain but the son beside him is the sharper pain a lilac for this solemn train the one I throw, it bears his name the wood thrush with her tender throat the north harp sings its wizard note in elms above where the lilacs grow the bluest of the blues on show I see him now, the martyr slain but the son beside is the sharper pain when lilacs meet this solemn train the bluest one, it bears his name

Red Form of Rouen Lilac

Syringa x chinensis forma saugeana · Listen on Bandcamp

Tuesday wears her ruby shoes a red syringa sings the blues a budding florist weaving garlands plucked from the chorus for movie stardom I’d take your picture, but I’m too shy to a cowardly lion, I’d walk right by you and pass you blacked out in fields of poppies snowdrifts over buried bodies the movie dream is just a set though with paper moon beams and snow asbestos the painted scene on walled horizons scarecrow, tin men, and cowering lions so click your heels and we’ll leave this dream realm I’ll be the wizard you be my wych elm I fashioned you a lilac blossom with red syringes and balls of cotton with tangled roots with ruby rhizomes hails from China, but that’s a lie though click your heels and we leave this dream realm I’ll be the wizard, you be my wych elm an emerald city lies before us leave this garden, I’ll be your forest

Emerald Ash

Agrilus planipennis · Listen on Bandcamp

At the dawn Of the world When the wild wood was young And a wizard walked among The humble seeds When he walked With a staff Just a simple stick of ash The brooks would tease and laugh At the hushing breeze There were clouds White and gray And the night divided day And the years would roll away Like tumbleweeds He wrote songs For the stones I still hear those lonesome tones When they lull my weary bones To gentle sleep This is the last The end of the emerald ash It’s ashes to ash The end of the emerald ash At the dawn Of the world When the wild wood was young And a wizard walked among The budding trees There were nests For the bees In the swaying limbs of trees As they waved at golden beams Just out of reach There was joy There was pain There was drought And there was rain And invasive species came With dread disease Broken jewels Emerald ash Beauty doesn’t last And populations crash Like falling trees This is the last The end of the emerald ash It’s ashes to ash The end of the emerald ash This is the last The end of the emerald ash It’s ashes to ash The end of the emerald ash This is the last The end of the emerald ash It’s ashes to ash The end of the emerald ash

The Red Rowan Tree

Sorbus aucuparia 774-2016*A · Listen on Bandcamp

When the waxwing sings With the black-capped chickadee His madcap melody In the red rowan tree When the red-wing sings With the warbler’s “witchity” His madcap melody In the red rowan tree Do you hear their voices? Before us, a chorus Of madcap melody In the rowan, the rowan The red rowan tree In the rowan, the rowan, the rowan The rowan tree When the towhee sings And he bids you “drink your tea” And the bluebird says “chur-wi” In the red rowan tree When the wood thrush sings Like a flutist’s melody With the warbler’s “witchity” In the red rowan tree Can you hear their voices? The forest, a chorus Of madcap melody In the rowan, the rowan The red rowan tree In the rowan, the rowan, the rowan tree Will you join our chorus The forest implores us With madcap melody In the rowan, the rowan The red rowan tree In the rowan, the rowan The red rowan tree In the rowan, the rowan, the rowan tree

Weeping Cherry Weep For Me

Prunus subhirtella ‘Pendula’ 319-90*H · Listen on Bandcamp

weeping cherry weep for me as dew drops weep for dawn where children cartwheel hands and feet upon the emerald lawn and daffodils upon the hill repeat their saffron song weeping cherry weep for me upon the emerald lawn forget-me-not and kiss-me-quick Spring won’t linger long for I burn like a candle-wick upon the emerald lawn weeping cherry weep for me where dappled worlds are drawn and let me lie in gentle sleep upon the emerald lawn

Cherry Blossoms

Flower of Prunus serrulata · Listen on Bandcamp

Cherry blossoms falling all along the drive Like the leaves of early autumn I sweep them up just like I’m emptying an ashtray And soon they’ll be forgotten I started thinking how I got here in the first place Was this what I really wanted You sweep me up just like you’re emptying the ashtray I like to smoke them while I got ’em Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Ordinarily I’m ordinary me In my ordinary problems Now and then I am my former self again A faded, fallen cherry blossom Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms (guitar solo) Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms Cherry blossoms falling all along the drive It’s the early spring in Boston I sweep them up with my memories of the old days I’d forgotten that I’d lost them

The Elder Tree

Sambucus nigra 170-2008*B · Listen on Bandcamp

Sleep with me beneath the elder tree I’ll weave you such pleasant dreams A reverie filled with fantasy Where nothing is as it seems Then I’ll steal you away from your family, they say But, kid, who are they to be believed Sleep with me beneath the elder tree I’ll weave you a tapestry of dreams Sleep with me beneath the elder tree I’ll weave you such pleasant dreams I’d have you see such pageantry A vision of kings and queens And in the dark of the play, you’ll be spirited away Replaced by the shade within the tree Sleep with me beneath the elder tree I’ll weave you a tapestry of dreams I’d have you see such tragedy A slow tableau of scenes The dying plea of the tragic lead His lackless lover screams You were stolen away, your family will say They remain inconsolably bereaved Sleep with me beneath the elder tree I’ll weave you a tapestry of dreams And I’ll return you someday when you’re aged and gray And then you will see you’ve been deceived An elder thee within the elder tree You weave a tapestry of dreams

Elder is a small, deciduous, shrubby tree with an especially rich folklore. It’s said to ward off witches, or maybe be a witch’s tree. It’s said to have many beneficial medicinal properties, but also you should never make a cradle out of it, or burn it. Or, if you do take kindling from an elder, be sure to ask first, with words along these lines: “Old Gal, give me of thy wood, and I will give some of mine when I grow into a tree.” Sleeping under an elder was thought to bring strange dreams, visions of the fairy king and his court, or even abduction by the fairy folk. And the elder tree was said to contain a powerful spirit or witch called the “Elder Mother.” Visiting the black elder, Sambucus nigra 170-2008*B, you find an unassuming shrub growing beside a bald cypress on the banks of Dawson Pond. It’s tucked away, and easy to miss behind the chokeberries. It does look like a cozy place to take a nap. With a little imagination, the nearby cypress knees could become a procession of figures, a vision of kings and queens.

Lily Pond And Lily Pad

Nymphaea odorata on Faxon Pond · Listen on Bandcamp

what goes on, my lily pond from the dusk until the dawn those hollow logs, those lusty frogs what goes on? don’t be mad, my lily pad i’m not the only girl you’ve had i’m not the first, won’t be the last my lily pad who caught your eye, my damselfly has someone plucked you out the sky? some sticky tongue, some lonesome night my damselfly don’t you cry, my dragonfly i’m not your only girl, am i? if i don’t say, it’s not a lie my dragonfly what goes on, my lily pond from the dusk until the dawn those lusty frogs, your mossy bogs what goes on don’t be sad, my lily pad you’re not the only boy i’ve had you’re not the first, won’t be the last my lily pad don’t be sly, my damselfly say it clear as summer sky now tell me, dear, and don’t deny my damselfly don’t you pry, my dragonfly between the truth and outright lie it’s a grey and cloudy sky my dragonfly what goes on, my lily pond you’re as murky as a swamp what muddy clomps, what filthy romps my lily pond don’t be sad, my lily pad just let it float above your head you can’t hear what’s left unsaid my lily pad

Hazel

Corylus avellana 98-2012*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She said her name was Hazel And she was blessed with hazel eyes Just like her name implies Changing with the light Like some fairy woodland sprite Beautiful and bright She said her name was Hazel And she was gifted second sight As a dowsing rod will rise And fall where water lies She steered her shepherd right A shepherd such as I The wise woman of Abel Who soothed the hateful battle cries I think the metaphor applies She gave me sensible advice For she’s as worldly as she’s wise As the merry Windsor wives She said her name was Hazel And she was from the other side Of the dusky veil of night And like a breaking ray of light She crossed the great divide And I took her as my bride She said her name was Hazel And she forsook eternal life To see the world with mortal eyes To love beneath the changing sky With a shepherd such as I Until the day she died She said her name was Hazel And she was cut down in her prime It’s the fate she was assigned Yet in seven summers’ time As a coppiced tree will rise Again I see those hazel eyes And so I named you Hazel Because you have your mother’s eyes The kind you can’t deny Playing tricks upon the light Like a fairy woodland sprite So beautiful and bright

Giant Angelica

Angelica gigas 186-2009*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Giant Angelica Loves her Metallica Lives the American way Giant Angelica Sells esoterica to anyone able to pay Someday that girl will be mine And I’ll have a giantess bride Someday she’ll be mine And I’ll write… Giant Angelica Spelled in Helvetica Right at the top of the cake Giant Angelica Dressed in Athletica Sports that she don’t even play Someday that girl will be mine The long tall American kind I’ll make her my bride Giant Angelica In the basilica Joyous and giant and gay Giant Angelica Yes, my Angelica It’s all that I manage to say Someday that girl will be mine She’ll be my giantess bride Someday she’ll be mine Giant Angelica Reading about Seneca In the Britannica Typed in Helvetica Playing Metallica On her harmonica Wearing Athletica Sports that she don’t even play The girl will be mine someday

Prairie Smoke

Geum triflorum 119-2019*MASS-A · Listen on Bandcamp

Rosie cried last time we spoke Her cheeks as red as prairie fire Her eyes were soaked Prairie smoke And when I tried to tell a joke Her mascara ran in lines And watery strokes Prairie smoke We don’t have long, I think you know As these old-man whiskers show But I’m too old to take it slow So, Rosie, hold me close Prairie smoke I’m not one to sugarcoat I don’t have time for purple prose And flowery quotes Prairie smoke But there’s a lump inside my throat And I’m burning with desire My dearie dote Prairie smoke Prairie smoke Prairie smoke Hold me close Prairie smoke We don’t have long, I think you know As these old-man whiskers show But I’m too old to take it slow So, Rosie, hold me close

Run Rosie

Bradley Rosaceous Collection · Listen on Bandcamp

Wake up, Rosalie I think we fell asleep Now don’t you look so stunned You better run, Rosie, run, Rosie, run Wake up, Rosalie You can’t stay here with me Your train’s about to come You better run, Rosie, run, Rosie, run There’s a garden in Boston town Where roses grow City children run up and down While the lovers stroll so slow We strolled so slow Wake up, Rosalie You can’t be seen with me Before somebody comes You better run, Rosie, run, Rosie, run (guitar solo) There’s a garden in Boston town Where roses grow City children run up and down While the lovers stroll so slow We strolled so slow Wake up, Rosalie We shared such a pleasant dream But now the dream is done You better run, Rosie, run, Rosie, run

Where The Dog Rose Blooms

Rosa caesia ssp. caesia · Listen on Bandcamp

The rose moon rose In the month of June And I wandered alone where the dog rose blooms To the rose that grows On my lover’s tomb With the bark that bites, the dog rose bloom And the rose moon rose By the mouth of her tomb And I howled in the night, the dog rose bloom I never was frightened Of werewolves and lycans My ignorance was my bliss A rose is just what it is As a kiss is a kiss But who can presume To know how their life ends The bride will die in a twist Pruned, discarded, dismissed With a flick of the wrist Werewolves under rose moons Werewolves under rose moons Where the dog rose blooms I never was frightened Of werewolves and lycans A notion I simply dismissed I chose to deny they exist And they live in our midst But who can presume To know how their life ends The groom transmutes in a twist The bloom on his tailcoat is ripped See the curl of his lip Werewolves under rose moons Werewolves under rose moons Where the dog rose blooms

Sweet Briar Rose

Rosa micrantha · Listen on Bandcamp

Rosella, Rosella, my sweet briar rose A gift for the princess in swaddling clothes You’ve been showered with blessings and presents with bows Then mortally cursed in a villainous blow This everyone knows The curse was well said and none may oppose Your fate is a groom to whom you’re betrothed But fate is not fixed, fate can bend, it can bow Sweet girl, you won’t die, you merely will doze My sweet briar rose Then the king of this castle and all those enclosed Will sleep in enchantment as thickets will grow To cover the castle so none are exposed And no one may enter to see you reposed My sweet briar rose But heroes will try, and robbers and rogues And testing your thicket they’ll turn back in droves And year after year your legend will grow Then give way to myth as the memory erodes My sweet briar rose Rosella, Rosella, my sweet briar rose Someday a prince will visit this grove And find you here sleeping in peaceful repose And you’ll wake with a kiss your prince will bestow My sweet briar rose Rosella, Rosella, my sweet briar rose Someday your prince will visit this grove And find you here sleeping in peaceful repose And you’ll wake with a kiss your prince will bestow My sweet briar rose

Scottish Rose

Rosa spinosissima · Listen on Bandcamp

Roslin, like the Scottish town Moved to Boston and she settled down Where buses rumble through the hill and dale From Forest Hills where the roses grow Towards Westy when the sun gets low By purple line, the rumbling commuter rail And Rozzie, she’s my Scottish rose Gets all tied up in the traffic’s flow As the skyline slowly dons her dusky veil On the train tracks over Bussey Bridge Oh, I shudder just to think of it How the rust had made the iron bridge so frail And the weight of train cars four through eight Collapsed the bridge and all its precious freight That fateful day the iron bridge would fail From that twisted train such plaintive screams Amid desperate calls to rescue teams The neighbors, they could only watch and wail But it’s faded like a fever dream The bridge is just a peaceful scene A plaque is there and it tries to tell the tale And now there stands a bridge of stone It’s the bridge that carries Roslin home Her purple line, that wounded commuter rail So Roslin, my Scottish rose Don’t you hear that ghostly whistle blow? As you rumble through the town of Roslindale Oh Roslin, my Scottish rose Don’t you hear that ghostly whistle blow? As you rumble through my town of Roslindale

Alba Rose

Rosa rugosa ‘Alba’ · Listen on Bandcamp

I open her book of poems Like the folds of an alba rose Nestled in trestles of white Her poetry seems to be Scented of potpourri She keeps me up all through the night And when I finally sleep In dreams we meet Under an arbor of starlight She’s pure as an opening rose My alba rose Sometimes I seem to be Not of this century A candle for my reading light And the snow on my modest home Falling in monochrome Like delicate petals of white And when I finally sleep In dreams we meet Under an arbor of starlight She’s pure as an opening rose My alba rose And hunched in my sleeping clothes Leafing through folios Dragging a tome to the light Ms. Rossetti of Charlotte Street You’re my rose in the meadowsweet I’ll dream of you all through the night And when I finally sleep In dreams we meet Under an arbor of starlight She’s pure as an opening rose My alba rose

Damask Rose

Rosa × damascena · Listen on Bandcamp

She never told me she loved me She kept it under the rose And acted like she thought nothing of me The truth was under my nose In the cinnamon and honey The citrus and clove Nobody does me like my Damascus rose She never told me she loved me I had to stay on my toes She liked to hold it above me The truth was under my nose In the cinnamon and honey The crimson and clove Nobody does me like my Damascus rose In the cinnamon and honey The crimson and clove Nobody does me like my No one comes close Nobody does me like my Damascus rose And her rose is so lovely So many intricate folds Each inviting discovery Of the secrets it holds Like the cinnamon and honey The crimson and clove Nobody does me like my No one comes close Nobody does me like my Damascus rose

Rosa Mundi

Rosa gallica versicolor · Listen on Bandcamp

You’re the rose of the world, Rosamund You dazzled everyone You’re the rose of the world, Rosamund The king was overcome Your beauty left him stunned And when his heart was won He built a secret garden labyrinth For his rose among the mums But it’s a vicious world, Rosamund You mustn’t bear the king’s son You’re his mistress, girl, Rosamund When the queen learns what you’ve done Her guard will see you hung You’ll have nowhere to run In your secret garden labyrinth They’ll find you, Rosamund Just a little girl in a maze Could have gone a thousand ways At every turn a polished blade to give you chase A pity, Rosamund Little Clifford girl, Rosamund There’s nowhere left to run It’s a vicious world, Rosamund But you’ll choose how you’ll succumb Will you face the dagger’s plunge or place the poison on your tongue In your secret garden labyrinth A pity, Rosamund The little girl in a maze Couldn’t face the polished blade Instead she chose to taste the poison in its place A pity, Rosamund She was buried by the nuns Where the abbey valley runs In a grave where purple hyacinth Is grown among the mums And a rose is planted by her grave With petals soft as courtly lace The petals striped like the streaks of tears across her face The dazzling Rosamund The rose of the world The rose of the world The rose of the world The rose of the world

Cabbage Rose

Rosa × centifolia 327-84*B · Listen on Bandcamp

A cabbage is as cabbage does A bobblehead made of petal fuzz A cabbage rose for the one you love The cabbage rose grows because, because The petals swell and they’re pink as lips The cabbage rose with the cabbage hips The little dewdrops appear in drips It’s the bloom that could doom a thousand ships Like the heroes oblivious Like Achilles and Odysseus We like to think we’re impervious So the roses never worry us But the rose isn’t obvious You’ll get pricked by the rose you miss Spin around, kid, and there it is It’s the bloom that could doom a thousand ships Who can say why the cabbage loves When the spring brings the turtle doves Little buds on the cabbage shrubs The cabbage rose grows because, because Like a “pow” from a comic strip There’s a flower and it’s in your grip So be careful who you woo with it It’s the bloom that could doom a thousand ships Like the heroes oblivious Like Achilles and Odysseus We like to think we’re impervious So the roses never worry us But the rose isn’t obvious You’ll get pricked by the rose you miss Spin around, kid, and there she is It’s the bloom that could doom a thousand ships Like the heroes oblivious Like Achilles and Odysseus We like to think we’re impervious So the roses never worry us But the rose isn’t obvious You’ll get pricked by the rose you miss Spin around, kid, and there she is It’s the bloom that could doom a thousand ships

Apothecary Rose

Rosa gallica officinalis · Listen on Bandcamp

Apothecary Rose I don’t know the way the wind blows Has my true love gone astray Apothecary Rose Can you make for me a love potion? A way to make him stay Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose For every good there is an ill For every pain there is a pill In every heart there is a deep, deep ache Give me your palm, little one I’ve got the thorn for your thumb I can make all of your pain go away If you pay Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose My lover’s mad with love’s throes I fear he’s gone insane Do you have the antidote? And while he’s sleeping in his bedclothes I’ll push it in his veins Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose For every good there is an ill For every pain there is a pill In every heart there is a deep, deep ache Give me your palm, little one I’ve got the thorn for your thumb I can make all of your pain go away If you pay Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose I am just a lonely widow My true love’s in his grave Can you summon me his ghost? I would like to see his shadow Before my memory fades Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose For every good there is an ill For every pain there is a pill In every heart there is a deep, deep ache Give me your palm, little one I’ve got the thorn for your thumb I can make all of your pain go away If you pay Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose Apothecary Rose

Full Moon Maple

Acer japonicum 220-2008*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I’ll tell you the fable Of the full moon maple I think I remember the tale The boy from the stables With hair black as sable Whose first love had taken the veil Though poor and unmannered That boy was enamored He courted her to no avail So desperate to marry When that old apothecary Offered him service for sale My boy, you’re as lovely As a decorative shrubbery But you’re spilling your seed on the shale Sweet boy, don’t be daunted I can give what you wanted In all but the smallest detail When they reached understanding He reached for her hand and A powerful magic prevailed The boy from the stable Became a full moon maple And she carried him home to her dale And when the moonlight Hits him just right This little tree, he Stands so upright Limbs start swaying Like music’s playing Through the night By moonlight Some simple melody By moonlight To him it’s like a symphony They’re dancing At the moonlit maple ball Romancing A happy ending after all Romancing At the moonlit maple ball

Freeman Maple

Acer × freemanii 456-94*C · Listen on Bandcamp

I made you a cradle of Freeman maple A cage, little mage, you escaped And I watched you play and I kept you safe In my hopelessly limited way And we sat round the table Read stories and fables You yearned to learn what they convey And I sensed your pain as I tried to explain In my hopelessly limited way Oooh The story of Babel, of Cain and of Abel The floods that covered the plains Every firstborn slain, oh, the good Lord’s brain Is a strange and terrible place His birth in the stables Those choirs of angels Abundance of wine and of grain It’s the good Lord’s plan We’re in the palm of his hand In our hopelessly limited way Oooh And I dreamed of a tree-man A maple like Freeman Scratching his home in the dirt And I saw him there Crumpled leaves in hair Samaras fell like stars to the earth So I carved you a cradle of Freeman maple And I’ll write you a song for your birth Because I see you there Every strand of your hair Like an angel who fell to the earth And there’s no star at your stable No choir of angels But I love you for whatever it’s worth And I see you there Every strand of your hair You’re my angel who fell to the earth

The Buddha reached enlightenment after meditating under a bodhi tree. Adam and Eve fell from grace after eating from the Tree of Knowledge. The God of Abraham appeared to Moses in a burning bush and revealed his name. Jesus, a carpenter by trade, died for the sins of the world upon a wooden cross, wearing a crown of thorns. The Tree of Life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, with leaves for the healing of the nations, is the final image of Revelation. The enlightenment, the fall, the revelation of the divine name, the atonement, the restoration. It strikes me that in these moments of spiritual threshold, a tree, a bush, a vine is present. I don’t imagine that trees have a religious imagination as we do, but if they did, might they dream of a tree-man, crumpled leaves in his hair, samaras falling like stars to the earth? The Freeman maple is so named for the botanist Oliver M. Freeman who crossed a silver maple with a red maple. The cross inherits some of the best qualities of both its parents: the fast growth and resilience of the silver maple, and the strong wood and brilliant color of the red maple. This particular Freeman maple, 456-94*C, stands near Faxon Pond off of Meadow Road. A tree that arguably grew beyond the limits of its parents.

Paper Maple Curls

Acer griseum 21452*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I knew someday you’d waver But I’m the kid who never learns Who keeps grinding down to the eraser While the rusty razor turns I know you see our neighbor With the paper maple curls Those locks like rolling papers She’s such a lovely girl Don’t do me any favors Soon you’ll leave me spurned You smoked those rolling papers While our book of matches burned But as sunlight melts the glaciers As the ashes fill the urn I’ve learned that sooner or later That rusty razor turns You don’t love her and I don’t hate her But we meet the end we’ve earned You’re too late to try to save her That paper maple burned You’re too late to try to save her That paper maple burned

Norway Maple

Acer platanoides ‘Undulatum’ 147-90*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Look at the street tree Sipping his fancy cup of coffee Waxing his goatee Keeping those handlebars so glossy He’s just a street tree Says he saw Pavement play with Quasi Hipster in peak tee King Crimson at the Roxy Calls me provincial in my views Dude’s like a sugar substitute He’s a Norway maple I’d root you out if I were able Norway maple Turn back the clock to turn the tables on you That’s what I would do But I’m just a street tree No one is native to the city I’m spilling a weak tea I’m like a cultivar of gritty So why does he tweak me? Belting Standfast lyrics off-key Because he completes me He’s my imposter syndrome proxy Calls me provincial in my views Dude’s a milky sap with shallow roots He’s a Norway maple I’d do the same if I were able He’s a Norway maple I hate the way you turn the tables on me

Sugar Maple

Acer saccharum 12565*C · Listen on Bandcamp

Won’t you come over For a cup of tea Rap upon my back door I left the key You’re a good neighbor Baby, I’m in need Won’t you do a little favor Just for me And I’ll be your sugar maple tree I’ll let you tap on me Won’t you come over For a bite to eat Are you in the mood for salty Or something sweet I think I know the flavor Try my recipe I’m a good neighbor You can tap on me And I’ll be your sugar maple tree I’ll let you tap on me The winter’s got me woozy I need a touch of heat Don’t think that I’m a floozy Help me off my feet Will you fetch another blanket Pour a cup of tea Can I spill a little secret I can be discreet Won’t you come over For a cup of tea Tap upon my back door You’ve got the key You’re a good neighbor Baby, I’m in need Won’t you do a little favor Just for me And I’ll be your sugar maple tree I’ll let you tap on me

Father David’s Maple

Acer davidii 666-94*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I have a vision Like William Blake I’m cursed with all these visions Of an all-consuming snake Visions of the future Visions of the past I stand upon a vista Where distances are vast I have a vision The green man on his path I have a vision Of elder tree and ash The maple man is walking He speaks in creaks and cracks His knotted knees are knocking There’s snake skin on his back Some say he’s a healer Some say he’s a snake Son, he’s a wheeler-dealer They say he’s on the take Some say that he’s a dreamer Brother, he’s awake Some say that he’s a schemer He’s just a loathsome rake I have a vision I have these visions I have a vision Like William Blake I’m cursed with all these visions As deep as any lake As wide as any vista Where distances are vast Visions of the future And of the future past Some say that I’m a healer Some say I’m a snake Son, I’m a wheeler-dealer They say that I’m on the take Some say that I’m a dreamer Brother, I’m awake Some say that I’m a schemer Just a loathsome rake Some say I’m a demon The devil at the gate This maple man’s a freeman I made the great escape Some say I’m the green man A knotted knocking gait I will be what I will be, man That’s why I wear the snake And I have visions I have these visions I have visions

The Painted Maple

Acer mono 5358*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She’s five three, five eight to me Painted like a maple tree Velvet rope at her feet Better treat her like celebrity I heard she came from Tokyo Mailed in an envelope Planted on Meadow Road And she still can’t seem to let it go I see her most in magazines Chic as a movie queen Trying to steal the scene She haunts some men like a fever dream I one time saw her paint the sky At dawn I was walking by I gave her a startled fright That she gifted with her second sight She leaned towards me and whispered low She said, “Take me back to Tokyo” I said, “It’s not like I don’t want to go But I am just mortal, so I cannot move a rooted tree” She said, “Baby, that’s alright with me Baby, use your artistry To paint a scene that will never be” So the tree, she rose like a painted ship Ascending from her earthly slip Her mast was just a maple branch And the sky the sea in an endless dance But I could never, never paint her leaves I let her colors be It’s really not up to me That’s what I told the painted tree So she shed her leaves like a twisted snake And they fell in colored flecks and flakes ‘Til the world became a kindled lake My brush was just a simple rake Upon her painted leaves I fell In the colors of the fires of hell And I cried because I loved her well The day the painted maple fell

Devil Maple

Acer diabolicum 2625*A · Listen on Bandcamp

At twice thirteen The hourglass And five by five The minute past By eastern edge Of the northern tract It’s oxen hour On the willow path A maple tree Has opened wide I see the souls Of those who died I reach for them They cower and hide For the devil maple Stands astride And through his roots I see a shade A girl abandoned Like a cade Her chestnut hair In a halo braid But the devil maple Must be paid But the devil maple Must be paid I offer him A conker charm And drape it on His branching arms Then slip between His rooted bars As horned samaras Fall like stars As horned samaras Fall like stars I search her realm Of maple shade The underworld Is unsurveyed And pray I don’t return too late For the devil maple Seals the gate For the devil maple seals the gate

Acer diabolicum, known in Japan as oni-momiji, is so named because its horned samaras are reminiscent of the horned oni. In English we use “devil” or “demon” to stand in for oni, but the oni have a somewhat different connotation in Japan. They can be good or bad forces, tricksters or tragic figures, or even protectors. Considering the location of 2625*A, its tag reads 11-SE, which is, broadly speaking, the northeastern part of the arboretum. In traditional Japanese cosmology, the northeast direction is known as kimon, or “demon gate,” and is called ushitora, the direction of the ox and the tiger. This direction is associated with the oni and the northeastern ox and tiger direction is said to explain why oni, or demons, are depicted with ox horns and tiger-skin loincloths. An appropriate location for this tree. If we read the accession number of Acer diabolicum 2625*A as a time we get 26:25, or 2:25am on the following day. In Japan this is a common way to view times, especially late-night radio and TV programs which are sometimes listed using a 30-hour clock. And this time, 2:25am, falls within that final 5 minutes of what’s called ushimitsu-doki, roughly 2am to 2:30am, when ghosts and spirits are traditionally said to appear, and the doorway between this world and the next is at its thinnest. Looking at Acer diabolicum, 2625*A, it has two main leaders that grow in opposite directions. Wildflowers emerge from the crevice of the tree, giving the appearance of an opening or passageway into the earth. Or that was the flight of fancy that inspired this song.

The Silver Maple

Acer saccharinum 12560*C · Listen on Bandcamp

What child heard the whip-poor-wills Calling from her windowsill And walked the grounds at Forest Hills And found a pair of daffodils And laid the pair on bended knee Her posy for a fallen tree This simple gesture sang to me Two trumpets and timpani And clang went all the golden bells They rang a kind of passing knell The stump boomed like a drum to me Two trumpets and timpani I hear it now from time to time The music as I’m walking by The silver maple symphony Two trumpets and timpani I haven’t seen those flowers since Their absence sometimes makes me wince So I suppose it falls to me Two trumpets and timpani I lay the flowers on bended knee Like sunlight to a fallen tree My shadow for your canopy Two trumpets and timpani And clang go all the golden bells The lonesome song of whip-poor-wills It’s the silver maple symphony Two trumpets and timpani

A song for The Silver Maple – Acer saccharinum 12560*C which once was the tallest tree in the Arnold Arboretum in Boston. When I visited the tree one year ago, after it had been cut down, but before the stump was ground out, I noticed that someone had left two daffodils on the stump.

Red Maple

Acer rubrum ‘Schlesingeri’ 3256*A · Listen on Bandcamp

late in the summer a chill on the breeze my red-headed lover under the maple trees she was the branches i was the bird i knew the music she knew the spoken words come to me softly soft as a thief why do you tremble my little maple leaf come to me gently and lay down your grief why do you quiver my little maple leaf late in the summer everything turns my red-headed lover see how the maple turns come to me softly soft as a thief why do you tremble my little maple leaf come to me gently and lay down your grief why do you quiver my little maple leaf come like a whisper a sigh of relief why do you tremble my little maple leaf come to me softly soft as a thief why do you tremble my little maple leaf come like a whisper a sigh of relief why do you quiver my little maple leaf

Horsechestnuts

Aesculus × carnea 323-70*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Have you seen my girl With the chestnut mare She’s in the woods And she’s running scared Wears her riding hood Like rocket flare She’s gone for good And I don’t know where And night is falling In the deep dark wood And I keep calling For my little riding hood Makes a ponytail Of her light brown hair Like a rabbit’s foot In a hunter’s snare See her ghostly breath Hit the autumn air And I miss her more Than I can bear And I keep calling In the deep dark wood I found her fallen Where the horse chestnut stood She’s my little girl With the chestnut hair Wears a riding hood Like a rocket flare Caught a horse’s hoof In a hunter’s snare And she’s gone for good And I don’t know where And I keep calling In the deep dark wood I found her fallen Where the horse chestnut stood

Weeping Willow

Salix alba var. vitellina ‘Pendula’ 94-90*A · Listen on Bandcamp

You were the sunlight on my leaves I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You were the moonrise in the east I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee Moonrise in Cancer A trine with Mercury But I divine no answer So I weep for thee You were the soft rush of the creeks I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You were the rain falling in streaks I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee Streams run to rivers Rivers to the sea Some forever undelivered So I weep for thee You were the tears hot on my cheeks I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You were the rain falling in streaks I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee (instrumental) Moonrise in Cancer A trine with Mercury But I divine no answer So I weep for thee You were the sunlight on my leaves I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You were a moon missing a piece I was your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You are my star fallen at sea I am your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You are my lost tail of debris I am your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You are my star fallen at sea I am your weeping willow tree I cry for thee You are my lost tail of debris I am your weeping willow tree I cry for thee

Prince Of The Cork Trees

Phellodendron amurense 7544*C · Listen on Bandcamp

I was asleep I was idle and free I was at peace On the river of dreams As it runs to the sea Then as some summer breeze He spoke to me The prince of the cork trees And I was received On his island of dreams His island was wreathed By an ocean of grief And he would weep on the beach Then in glorious speech Poetry From the prince of the cork trees He told me of when he was naive He was young and deceived And surrounded by thieves He told me how he traded his leaves For a curious fleece And he hid in the deep Little prince in his keep He told me how he’d gone to extremes How he was haunted by dreams of his youth How he studied the streams What he learned from the sea and dunes And the sun and the moon And everything He told me he was simply besieged So what else could he be But the dreamer and dream Little prince fell asleep in his keep Now he dreams of the swell and the swoon Of the sea and dune and the sun and the moon And everything He dreams of the swell and the swoon Of the bee and the bloom and the sun and the moon And everything So take it from me, my curious fleece I give it to thee You must cut it from me Every third year times three But it’s not prophecy It’s poetry Said the prince of the cork trees

Linden Tree

Tilia tomentosa ‘Petiolaris’ 13453*A · Listen on Bandcamp

She changed to a linden tree The wind shook her and took her from me And I witnessed the tragedy Her heart shook like a linden leaf And now she goes by so many names But I always know her and love her just the same Despite how she’s changed to a linden tree She changed to a linden tree And I witnessed the tragedy And I visit and wander beneath And I brought back her linden leaf And now she goes by so many names But I always know her and love her just the same Despite how she’s changed to a linden tree

Arnold’s Promise

Hamamelis × intermedia 396-69*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Her father hailed from old Japan Her mother sailed from the spirit lands A little child from everywhere Yellow ribbon in her hair As she grew she learned the land Collected seeds and cared for plants The little girl grew woodland-wise A gifted witch with hazel eyes By happenstance she met a man A whaling merchant, proud and grand Who had amassed a kingly sum And when he passed his heirs were none His will contained a fateful clause A promise given force of law For money moves the world of men And this is how her wood begins A plot of land was found to lend The arboretum’s lease was penned She signed it with her blood and tears The promise of one thousand years Plots were made and lines were drawn With precision of a jeweler’s saw An emerald necklace, effulgent Her jewel was cut and in it went She traveled far and traveled wide She wandered China’s countryside And took a boat to old Japan To gather seeds from distant lands She packed her seeds in burlap bags And planted trees and gave them tags The foundling trees from everywhere She housed them in the open air With wild meadows, pampered lawns Stately hills and lowly ponds And secret gardens tucked away Where lovers stroll and children play The gifted witch with hazel eyes Beside the manor now she lies Her magic always came with cost And every gain was through a loss She’s shriveled to a simple shrub See her yellow flowers bud While winter wanes and snowmen weep She still has promises to keep

Tulip Trees

Liriodendron chinense 451-80*D · Listen on Bandcamp

Come and slip away with me And we can tiptoe through the tulip trees And we can sit beneath their canopies If you slip away with me Come and slip away with me And we can tiptoe through the tulip trees And we can whisper with the mountain breeze If you slip away with me Baby, isn’t it weird to me How everything is so clear to me Every time that you’re near to me True love in a tulip tree Come and float away with me Like the humble little bumblebee Like a bubble on a mountain stream Come and float away with me Come and float away with me A little boat upon the open sea A little note within a melody Come and float away with me Baby, isn’t it weird to me How everything is so clear to me Every time that you’re near to me True love in a tulip tree Baby, isn’t it weird to me How everything is so clear to me Every time that you’re near to me True love in a tulip tree Baby, it’s weird Just to be here Just to be near True love in a tulip tree Baby, it’s weird Just to be here Just to be near True love in a tulip tree

Magnolia

Magnolia denudata 1165-84*G · Listen on Bandcamp

She’s learned her lessons And counted blessings Her flower pressings on the page She’s lost her blossoms She finally tossed them Like changing costumes in a play Magnolia Magnolia Magnolia What’s the matter Why so scattered Why so shattered by days (Magnolia) Dressed in tatters (Magnolia) Flowers battered (Magnolia) Why’d you scatter them away (Magnolia) She’s lost her blossoms (Magnolia) She finally tossed them (Magnolia) Like changing costumes in a play (guitar solo)

In this photo magnolia tree 1165-84*G has lost its blossoms entirely on the left half, while the right half of the tree is still clinging to them. To me it looks a bit as if we’ve caught the tree mid-transition, changing costumes between scenes, or seasons. The composition of it reminds me of a 1912 photo of a large chestnut tree standing in a field in Pennsylvania. The blight had killed half the tree, while the other half, still living, looked perfectly normal.

European Alder

Alnus glutinosa 10-26-2016 · Listen on Bandcamp

Like a European alder She was drawn to the water And she loved a rainy day But never meant to stay Always thought she’d move away By the banks of a river All the rain you could give her Where the soil turned to clay She never meant to stay Always thought she’d move away But when you love someone Like the rising sun It can bring about a change It’s hard to walk away Where the roots of the city lay And they can cut you down And drive you underground They can bury you in clay So you never see the light of day Down where the roots of the city lay Like the European alder In the black and brackish water She carries all that weight An engineered array Where the roots of the city lay Like the European alder Beneath the chapel and the altar Where the pious never pray Never see the light of day Where the roots of the city lay But when you love someone Like the rising sun They always make you pay It’s just predator and prey Where the roots of the city lay And they can cut you down And drive you underground A sarcophagus of clay So you never age a day Where the roots of the city lay And I love someone Like the rising sun It’s so hard to walk away Where the roots of the city lay

Common Reeds

Phragmites australis · Listen on Bandcamp

We walked in a dream To the banks of a stream And she whispered to me Like the wind, like the wind Those old melodies In Aeolian keys She played them to me Like the wind, like the wind She played them to me Like the wind through the reeds When the blustery breeze Begins Those old melodies In a midsummer dream Like the rush of the reeds In the wind She would wade in the sea With her dress at her knee And a flute made from reed At her chin, at her chin She was slender and sleek Like a stalk in the creek And she learned her technique From the wind, with the wind And she drew melodies From the beds of the streams Where the first memories Begin And she played them to me In a midsummer dream Like the rush of the reeds In the wind (instrumental) The old melodies Played on delicate keys Of a flute made of reed Or tin By the banks of a stream In a midsummer dream By the rustling of reeds In the wind

The Holly King

Ilex aquifolium 977-71*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I hope that you remember me Belting out the melody Happy as a holly tree on Christmas Day I hope that when you think of me It’s a portrait of frivolity Jolly as a holly tree on Christmas Day Because the wheel turns round Right side up goes upside down All the princes paupers now The holly king has lost his crown Because the wheel turns round What goes up comes crashing down, down The oak will rise from the ash somehow The holly king has lost his crown Look at us in revelry In the honey glaze of memory Happy as a holly tree on Christmas Day See us at the winter feast Berry and the holly leaf A second in a century A frozen play Because the wheel turns round Right side up goes upside down All the princes paupers now The holly king has lost his crown Because the wheel turns round What goes up comes crashing down, down The oak will rise from the ash somehow The holly king has lost his crown

Quaking Aspen

Populus tremuloides 582-2016*A · Listen on Bandcamp

Underground there is a river Feeding roots we never see It flows on and on forever Beneath the quaking aspen tree At the dawn I feel a shiver Through the night my restless knee The world around me starts to quiver Like the shaking aspen tree And you may only see the forest I hear a single tree Its lonely voice, it forms a chorus The quaking aspen tree And you may only see the forest I hear a single tree Its lonely voice, it forms a chorus The quaking aspen tree And oh, everyone’s a winner And we walk shining on the sea We only ever pitch no-hitters We’re on a date with destiny I know that I will finally be delivered I see who I was meant to be Our roots forever live unwithered I am the quaking aspen tree And you may only see the forest I hear a single tree Its lonely voice, it forms a chorus The quaking aspen tree And you may only see the forest I hear a single tree Its lonely voice, it forms a chorus The quaking aspen tree

Remembered Boy

Cornus kousa ‘Snowboy’ 507-82*A · Listen on Bandcamp

I remember when we were younger than today, than today I was overjoyed, little baby boy at play, at play And I, Father Time, saw the whole of your life My remembered boy, your recorded voice replayed, replayed On a radio echo, audio delay, delay Is this someone I know from a lifetime ago I remember when we were younger than today, than today I was overjoyed, little baby boy at play, at play And I, Father Time, saw the whole of your life I remember the shapes, the shapes that we traced And you are the shape shifter I remember the clouds, the clouds that we’d count And you, you are the cloud lifter I remember the stones, the stones that we’d thrown And you, you are a stone pitcher I remember the rings, my memories of things And you, you are a ring etcher And I, Father Time No, I won’t be denied I take what’s mine