A Poem on Fieldmouse Fodder

 I wrote the original draft of this poem on November 26, 2008 and have thought of posting it several times because I like horse chestnut trees and it comes to mind sometimes when the seasons change. Some of these things are observed but I have no idea if fieldmice eat chestnuts. It's not a very good or original poem in my opinion, so I include it more for its atmosphere.

***

Its winding roots are dipped
into the clayey chilled soil
and the wetness of dark water
blooms and seeps around their threads;
grasping rock, enclosing pebble,
cleaving through the fundament.
Anchored there, the trunk swells stoutly,
rough and grey and boldly tall;
and grows athwart in hefty branches,
stalwart perches for a nest.

*

IN SPRING, its fuzzed and pale leaf-buds
curl up to the bald cool sky.

In summer, the palmeate rays of green
raise sprinkled towers of rose-flecked blossom
from these drift the lightsome petals
wandering over brooding grass;
and weigh with lazy dignity
in lonely clump on shadowed fields, —
or burst with power, a tree of life,
amidst the tomblike secluded domain
of some distressing cobbled yard.

In autumn, shrivelling as if by flame
of scorching sunsets, lit the world
as from a hidden fiery pool,
crowns of spikes, crowns of cruelly
slaughtered verdure;
spindly-tipped maces whose fresh green thorns
harden, whose casket breaks asunder,
whose milkwhite flesh grows soft and dies
as the dark-pearled nut
is unhusked and left to lie,
a treasure exposed,
to insects, fieldmice, squirrels, and men.

In winter, melancholy,
lofty twig and branch untenanted,
ordered flurry of raindark twigs,
gently scaled and bronzy tips
which promise much in coming springs,
and skeleton with tangled ribs
where birds alight, and hide, and sing.