| Alders (From a journal entry made in early April, 1996) |
She was an alder in the park with all her female catkins like a thousand buttons dipped in golden powder, each one dangling in the breeze and waiting vainly for its seed to launch another race of alders. Where the male trees are, I do not know. We don't have many alders here, but since it is a kind of birch and loves wet ground and water, the males' long, drooping tails must sway expectantly on distant trees that stand along the river. We had alders once that grew along the slough that ran down from our former house. They're gone now, cut down by one who had no love of alders. How prudent they all are, I thought, to form their catkins in the fall, withstanding winter's snow and ice, to be an early guest in April. Somehow this year I stood and looked at my sole alder with more sweet sadness now than other years. Alive again! it seemed to whisper in the breeze: Springtime and alive again! I breathed in deep nostalgia for another time, the way I did when winter's thaw sent boisterous flocks of geese to breed beneath some northern sun. And when I stepped across the wooden rail that edged the park, my dog along to match my stride, I stopped a moment to peruse the tufts of whitlow grass, now dotting springfully the stirring earth, and then walked down the lane and home again. I felt a joyful sadness for this day and wondered why the world is made for grief. Was it catkins on the alder, the wild geese flying north, that morning's pregnant doe at my back porch, a cardinal's call, the whitlow grass— all mixed with throbbing cell and purpose? And why? I thought. And why? Alive! I whispered to myself, Alive is all! And on this lonely alder swayed all my catkin hopes. |
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