My shed is equipped with tools and power,

My secret, personal hickory tower.

I’m there more than unconscious in bed,

Creating with my hands is my mental bread.

Converting branches into spatulas and spoons,

Stumps into chairs with inlays of moons.

I listen to the wood, it tells me what to do,

Or at least gives me an opaque, grainy clue.

Sometimes simple, like a spatula from birch,

Or a bit harder, an oaken observatory perch.

This last project, though, it got me confused,

When racking my brain, I think it got bruised.

A car you can drive? Excuse me P. O. Wood?

Shouldn’t it be metal? I think it should.

But it couldn’t hurt, and I like the work,

Now I have a car but I’m going berserk.

I have to decide on how to name the bloody thing.

Woodillac? R.M.S. Teak-tanic. The Oax-wing?


St. Kilda

I’m a dendrophobe and I have it rough.

Finland’s not the place if seeing trees is tough.

A very small birch is enough to make me jump,

A great big pine and my heart ceases to pump.

If it’s bonsai, they just make me distressed,

Wunderbaums are fine, if not for the zest.

I need to find a place that has no woods,

But still has wind and rain and such earthly goods.

I could choose Sahara, but it’s too dry,

Everest would be good but it’s too high.

Then I heard of Kilda, a nice Scottish isle,

It’s very windy, not a tree for a mile.

They even say that sheep learned to fly,

The wind gave them wings and a ride to the sky.

St. Kilda sounds like the bestest place for me

Sheep were blown off and not a single tree.

Dancing trees

Every time I see two trees standing on a lawn,

One branch as a hanging bridge framing dawn,

I think they’re dancing their slow dance of trees,

With minor adjustments made by the breeze.

One four count might take ten years,

In music not made for our fast ears.

My grandpa took a pictures as he thought so,

Every single month, in the evening glow,

He did so till his son turned fifty,

Made a flick book of the movement drifty.

He saw the tango of the birches in the yard,

One two three in times soft and hard,

The year grandma died, they took a small bow,

When dad was born, a skyward bough.

Grandpa tired out and the trees bowed again,

The trees still dancing. When? Now and then.

Tree branches

The snow has painted all the birches white,

Their branches are pointing left and right,

North and south and east and west,

Up and down and all the rest.

Those young birches pointing away,

Regarding the world as new all day,

“Look at the clouds and that car over there!

Where did that rabbit run just now?! Where?!

Look, another cloud and it’s really big!

And a small deer thing that likes to dig!”

Every branch and bough is poised and ready,

Looking at the plants and a real-life teddy.

Birches are young, fast and wild,

Of every tree they’re most like a child.

Spruces, however, covered all over,

Branches so thick form the whitest clover,

They are the parent, with their embrace,

Their heavy limbs are the squirellotaur’s maze.

You don’t want to play tag with the rain?

Just come under and its chase is in vain.

You’re never safer than under a spruce,

This goes for robins, a mouse or a moose.

One fine summer I slept in a spruce-shade,

And after that, I’ve never been afraid.

Why are trees covered in snow?

There was once a conference quite a while ago.

The attendees were trees as far as I know.

They were worried about what to wear,

During winter in the cold, biting air.

There was pine who was a bit fluky,

His ideas could be just a bit spooky.

He suggested that they should wear flames,

They’d stay warm in their wintry games.

It was the only idea they had: So sure.

As you might imagine, the result was a bit poor.

It did keep them warm and it did it quite well,

Also lit up the world in which they did dwell.

They had one problem: The fire was adventurous,

And its approach to trees was very, very denturous.

The fire escaped and ate: it spread.

It engulfed forests leaving some trees dead.

The trees gathered again after this disaster,

This time listening to their tree-confectionery master.

He suggested everyone should try wearing cake.

It’s beautiful, tasty and it’s easy to bake.

This idea was fine as it worked as expected,

It did look nice and it warmed and protected.

The problems came with the local fauna.

Eat the trees, the animals did wanna.

They weren’t careful, so while they ate,

There was a loss of bark, of leaves and weight.

The trees got cold once again in their plight.

The winter proved almost too tough to fight.

One last summit before they would quit,

One last try before they would submit.

There was one birch who had a thought,

Solution: plentiful snow, the land was fraught.

It seemed silly as snow can be cold,

This was known since the Earth wasn’t old.

But, they tried as they had no choice,

And after some grumbling they did rejoice.

Yes, at first, it feels a bit chilly,

But it’s warmer than the air, and frilly.

It glistens and shines, an illumination:

The trees won’t freeze in any location,

Plus, they can read in the dark quite lightly,

Making the long evenings shine quite brightly.

This is why the trees in wintertime,

Are covered in snowy branches to climb.

Aren’t you glad they decided on snow?

Glue might’ve made forest walks a bit slow.

Mr. Birch

I’m a birch and I’m black and white.

Sometimes I’m green but not at night.

I like the seasons, they’re my friends.

I’ve seen some starts along with some ends.


You know what’s the good thing when spring comes?

For the whole winter I’ve twiddled my thumbs.

When the leaves come, they make a nice pop.

This tells me to open up shop.

With my leaves I hear and see,

I talk with the birds and listen to a flea.

They ask questions, sometimes they sing.

Without my leaves I wouldn’t know a thing.


You know what’s good when it’s midsummer?

When you can hear the woodpecker-drummer.

If there’s a breeze in which the leaves sway,

It tickles me and makes my day.

If there’s not, they shade my bark,

Along with the squirrels who leave their mark.

Hiding an acorn or two in my hair,

Running up and down without a care.


You know what’s good when autumn is here?

When I get yellow and red in my ear.

The leaves fall down and I can’t see.

Neither can I hear, which makes me free.

I feel light as the leaves don’t weigh,

Dream in peace in the white and gray.

I have dreams of color and white,

Of dark things that are driven by light.


You know why I love the winter so cold?

Why I’ll love it till I’m twisted and old?

The frost that covers branch and twig,

Is the finest and lightest, coolest wig.

The ice on my hair makes me sapling-fresh,

It makes me want to dance and thresh.

I look like a bride and feel like a groom.

But just for a moment, then I start to bloom.


If you ask me, every season is glee.

But that would be silly, you’re asking a tree.

Ancient pine

I should’ve had a map

One day I went for a walk with my friend.

We decided to go to the forest in the end.

Walking under the pines and their needles,

Swaying in the wind and housing some beetles.

Strolling in the birches’ gentle, loving shade,

The sunlight plays hide and seek with their aid.

We see an anthill and some ants ambling,

They’re neighbors of the roaches who relish rambling.

A fallen tree now covered by moss,

And a small swallow walking across.

It gets startled and flies away,

Maybe comes back later one day.

We come to a clearing verdant green,

More peaceful than I’ve ever seen.

My friend stops still and stops his bark,

Even he got to feel this place’s spark.

Completely silent with just one tree,

The biggest, oldest pine I ever did see.

It’s tall and wide and as old as a mountain.

It splits the clouds and becomes a fountain.

We just stare in awe for a time,

My friend and I, we both try to climb.

It’s not too hard but we just stop,

A voice tells us of the possible drop.

My friend sees a rabbit and quickly gives chase,

I run after with a smile on my face.

The clearing behind us, I just forget it,

I see no rabbit, my friend didn’t net it.

Some days I think of the clearing from back then,

I tried to find it but could never again.