Tulane Review Digital

White Oak Performs Final Act
By J. Ross Peters
The tree in the pasture had executed centuries
Of deliberate magic, biding time with predictable
Routines: leaves and acorns like so many million
Slight of hand operations appearing from its
branches
Like cards in the illusionist’s palm sent spinning,
All the while setting up next the frand finale.
If this cold front had come a week earlier,
The tree might have waited another year or
more.
But its leaves had come all in, so this system
Of green sails became assistants in the stunning
Denouement. The perfect set-up arrived—
The entire system of roots swimming in the saturated
Piedmont soil ready to release counter-pressure
To the western wind driving along the eastern slope
Of the Blue Ridge after the first line of storms
Had already careened passed, destined
To disappear long before they’d made it To the coast. In
the minutes between storms,
The sun played its cameo role entering Stage Left,
Allowing the leaves to use the updraft to flash
Their metallic silver-green underbellies
As powerfully as lights on a Neon Marquis.
These newborn leaves vibrated in resistance
And aided the coiled roots in loosening on the cue
Of a sustained gust out of the south.
They pushed The swelling soil on the west side next,
Then a final muffled yank and pull, and at last
The fall accelerating into shattering branches,
And a trunk pressed deep into the pasture
As an audience of drenched Holsteins looked
on.