‘Let me grow lovely, growing old”
is a poem by Karle Wilson Baker, which I’m not sure I can reprint because I’m not sure it’s public domain. (Prudes thrive on assessing and evaluating each potential action they might take, then searching for laws that could prohibit such action.)
The poem goes on to extol other beautiful, fine old things, like lace. Trees make the list.
Elms, even those untidy, drop-their-messes-everywhere mountain ashes—
hardwoods wear their age well.
The leaves these old deciduous trees dropped the previous autumn might not all be replaced in the spring. Come late summer, their scant leaves fade into fall hues even as their younger compatriots still flaunt green foliage.
But sparser leaf covering serves only to accentuate the splendid outlines of these trees.
There is dignity in the gnarled, scarred trunks.
Branches, some of them more fragile now, still extend with grace and beauty. More of the basic structure is being revealed, and it is beautiful.
The deciduous tree is stately.
Its oldness has a fine quality.
Even the most elderly of these, naked and alone, can provide a perch for the majestic bald eagle.
With the exception of the giant redwood, maybe the grand cedars of Lebanon, very few elderly needle-producing, cone-bearing softwoods inspire poets.
The ancient fir suddenly realizes he is more bark than bite.
Pines fight a losing battle with needles turning from verdant green to unattractive rust.
Or worse, the needles fall out, never to return.
Think ‘Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.’
Your yew (just let that phrase roll off your tongue), along with cousins cypress and hemlock, realize they are getting bald and spindly.
And the lowly arborvitae is just a bedraggled mass of sepia-colored scales drooping from veiny branches.
Unattractive veins and spindly shanks and drooping limbs.
That’s how a conifer ages.
Some of us, as we wend our way through mid-middle age, mature like hardwood deciduous trees.
Fine, elegant, stately.
And some of us, as we approach our pre-old age years, can’t help but notice we are getting scaly and droopy and rusty and prickly.
None of us have total control over how we’ll age.
It’s built into our DNA.
Plant an acorn and an oak grows.
Plant a scale-covered seed and you get a conifer.
Oak trees, maple trees, birch—they grow lovely, growing old.
Conifers just . . . grow old.
But little birds lighting on the numerous exposed branches of an old conifer don’t care what it looks like.
Their unlovely tree provides rest and shelter and doesn’t mind being swarmed with small bodies as long as the little ones don’t take the prickliness personally.
Old oaks, ancient maples, venerable elms, grizzled birches—still delight the senses with their beauty.
But the sparrows in the branches of an aging conifer don’t care about dropping needles or sagging limbs or spidery veins.
Like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, the conifer might not have grown lovely, growing old,
but it has grown love.