The Homely Spruce

There it stands, against the sky, dark.

There it stands, against the snow, stark.

When the wind howls and the storm breaks loose,

There it stands, the homely spruce.

“It’s just a scraggly thing”, you say,

And so continue on your way,

Searching for something worth your time;

Some leafy tree or handsome pine.

But you don’t know that humble tree

Means so much to folks like me.

Beneath its branches I have rest my head,

From its boughs I have made my bed.

When the blizzard wind harshly blows,

It has sheltered me from ruthless snows.

And when at nights I did retire,

It has kept me warm, it has fed my fire.

I’ve traveled the world, seen many a tree,

But none of them says “home” to me,

Not like the spruce on the last frontier,

That tree, forever, will I hold dear.

There’s a stunted tree haunched in the bog

Glaring out through the mist and the fog.

A taller one strains to stand at the foot

Of a mountain, it strains, in the rock to take root.

On the taiga country, it stands alone, proud.

In the denser forest, they stand all a-crowd.

That scraggly tree, sometimes just stubble,

But not every spruce is quite so humble.

Some day, you’ll walk through a forest of trees,

Calmly enjoying the flowers and bees,

Not hardly glancing at the docile stances

Of spruce trees with sparse needles and branches.

When suddenly you happen upon that tree

Which has been waiting so patient for someone to see

His beauty, his honor, his lovely rough bark,

His luxurious color, strikingly stark.

Not too tall for his width to compare,

His stately thick branches that reach toward the air.

A brown-colored trunk and cones tinted red,

A cluster of cones crowning his head.

A most handsome spruce, now you admire,

Now, in his presence, you may aspire

To build the place where you will now live,

And to this endeavor, the spruce trees will give.

Logs for your cabin, the spruce will now share,

Their all for your home, ‘till their heartwood is bare.

Peeled of their bark, which shall burn in your stove,

They now form a home in the midst of their grove.

In a cabin newly built, you awake at the dawn,

And enjoy the sweet smell of spruce, freshly sawn.

Lighting the stove with a thick round of wood,

You warm up the skillet and so cook your food.

Living alone in your humble log cabin,

Where the homely spruce is your constant companion,

Sharing his forest and covering your head

‘Till one tragic morning, the world finds you dead.

Now on your mattress of spruce boughs you lie,

Never expecting today you would die.

Now, by your friends, you are gently laid

In a coffin, hand-built, and set in a grave.

The grave has been dug near a spruce foot.

The coffin is laid amidst the spruce root.

Near, sits a stump where recent was fallen,

A homely spruce, cut for the craft of your coffin.

The spruce tree with beauty, yet lacking in clout,

I will not overlook, nor will I doubt,

While he lends me his help in my day of need,

His gift is from God who made him indeed.

The homely spruce which bows in the wind,

The dark-colored tree which snow drifts will bend,

In sunshine he points his head to the sky,

He lives for no one but for God on High.

And God on High did make the spruce,

And allows his gifts for my own use,

Yet whenever I see the spruce boughs raised,

I’ll remember the God whom the homely spruce praise.