By PLS
These elms, Siberian elms, hail from steppes
also rain-starved, and some world traveler
introduced them here, back when planting
a species good for one thing wasn’t weighed
against its bully boy effect on well-loved natives.
Too bad for languid cottonwoods, these elms
have flourished way beyond the wildest
expectation. Cut them back
to bare ugly stumps
and new shoots
will firm
into leaf-heavy branches before a summer’s out.
Come spring every limb’s a lei strung thick
and tight with little florets that turn to seeds.
Straw-colored, half dime-sized, they detach
and flutter down like pre-dirtied snow
that sticks and refuses to melt. They love
fissures, crevices, cracks, where seedlings root
unobserved by fastidious weeders. Their rate
of germination—my guess—comes close
a hundred percent and nothing knocks them out
that hasn’t been concocted in a modern lab,
great good luck for these pushy graceless trees,
these landscape crashers no one chic in Santa Fe
would dream now of inviting to a garden party.
Still
they thrive,
in vacant lots,
in neglected yards,
in the free-for-all strip along country roads,
and I, driving or on foot, appreciate the shade
and mountain cool air that collects and waits quite
democratically for anyone who happens by.
Patricia L. Sharpe
Copyright May 2006
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