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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0062 Robinia Pseudoacacia Alba</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Its trunk is right next to the front gate<br>so that as I go out, there's a faint flicker<br>of guilt and anger - next door's insurance company<br>want me to have it cut down, which I resent; it's just <br>so beautiful. It calls out love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All of four feet high when I bought it, <br>slender, almost unnoticeable, and a glorious mistake<br>since I'd confused it with a 'real' slow-growing acacia; <br>now it towers over the house, superb, generous and delicate, <br>gently shaken by the breeze as if to speak of eternal youth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's the one you see punctuating with its bright green fountain, <br>urban 'developments'; unaffected even a few feet from a 24-hour freeway, as incongruously itself as a geisha at a bus stop.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It hasn't forgotten it's really a forest tree, and reminds us daily<br>with aristocratic pride and a generous beauty, <br>which should shame those same 'developers' <br>who know it'll melt the hearts of photographers and clients alike...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If I pause at the gate, I see its bark - rough, pitted, gouged, <br>as if it has put in a lifetime of the most arduous work<br>to shame our human lives. An older substance <br>than a human lifetime, too; the more you look at it, <br>the more ancient in its knowledge. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What is it protecting, like some old and wizened man, <br>his arms around his grandchild? Within this aged bark, in some mysterious, magic way, substances are on the move; so well<br>protected, and disguised - to unfold, like some divine magician, <br>those delicate, pale green fronds of leaves, through which<br>the morning sun shines translucent like an unearned blessing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At night, its leaves fold up upon themselves<br>as hands in prayer. This is a tree to love. And it is loved. <br>It deserves this poem; which though it may not be divinely inspired, <br>celebrates a tree which surely is. And there we meet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460560" data-title="0062 Robinia Pseudoacacia Alba de Michael Shepherd" data-description="Its trunk is right next to the front gate
so that as I go out, there's a faint flicker
of guilt and anger - next door's insurance company
want me to have it cut down, which I resent; it's just 
so beautiful. It calls out love.

All of four feet hi..."></div>
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