An Ode to the American Beech
By: Sohum Kapadia and Timmy Ward
On a hill on Science Hill,
The beech stands, looking chill,
Bark smooth, but more than one crack,
The American wonders: when will the leaves come back?
The leaves, usually ovate and green,
Are mostly fallen, making the tree look lean,
With serrated edges, alternately set,
They whisper dreams of what comes next.
The twigs, brown and slender,
Yearn for summers where they are splendor,
They twist gently in the moonlit night,
Awaiting for the time they are no longer light.
The male flowers, also known as catkins,
Are still absent; maybe they did some sins?
The female flowers, invisible or small,
Will soon become the beechnut available for all.
The beechnuts will grow,
Encased in husks that also glow,
Shaped like triangles, they hide inside,
Until the fall, when they soon die.
Now, however, the tree is wide,
It’s arms open to birds that might come by,
With roots so deep, and branches free,
The beech stands proud, for all to see.