Hutong Ash / The Watcher

Sometimes you commit to writing about something, then find yourself stuck. A double poem today — two versions of the same, to be exact — to make up for missing the last two weeks.

Hutong Ash

Now and again,
Turning into my alley
With the old ash tree
Sunning every last one
Of its leaves, I think
How lucky we are
To still be impressed
Sometimes, not fail
To notice sometimes
The greenness.
So recently were we
Bottled up, then Pop
Into the bloom, into
Spring, spiraling
Like confetti shot
From a cannon into
Summer’s net of heat.
How long had we looked
At the bare branches
Of this ash waiting
To be seen?
You know what it’s used for?
my neighbor asked.
The Chinese staff
in martial arts,
the whippy kind.
Wind chaser, stone
Bruiser. I could almost
Hear it, the sharp crack
Of it saying its name,
Cutting through air,
Snapping us forward
Toward fall. Winter.
Whatever comes next.
Then, awaiting anew
For a moment like this,
This one right now.

---

The Watcher

I’ve been trying to write about an ash tree
for three weeks. With fits and starts,
almost theres and not quite rights. Distractions
have been aplenty, afternoon light melting
in a skyline of terrace parties, a little soughing breeze
whispering latent somethings and unsaids.

(Ash trees live more than two hundred years, long enough to witness four Chinas.)

Let’s begin here:
one afternoon, turning into my alley,
I saw our old ash tree sunning every last
one of its leaves. It was the first time
I had noticed its fullness, like an explosion
of hormones — luscious flourishing, such
shameless flaunting. Unbeknownst, I had
crossed the boundary between seasons,
been thrust into the bloom, a sweltering
green, summer’s net of heat.

How long had we looked
at its bare branches in a past weather, not realizing
its proclivity to burst and flare, respire and sprout,
seethe through stomate and stem? You know
what it’s used for? my neighbor asked. The Chinese staff
in martial arts, the whippy kind. Wind chaser, stone
bruiser, I thought. I could almost hear
its sharp crack snapping us forward
toward fall. Winter. Whatever
comes next.

Three weeks. The problem, I figure, is
I was overthinking it. While we ponder
the machinations of the world, shootings
and flyovers, median lines and overreactions
to jokes, it just watches. It waits. Maybe
for a moment like this, the one we’re in
right here.

(edited May 25, 2023)

Which version do you prefer?