Someday this dead tree, that stands so regally in the middle of the marsh, will be gone. I know this but it has nothing to do with my appreciation of it. Like Matisse or Guston or Van Gogh the tree at this late stage of its life is at the height of its powers.
The bald, parched colors of the wood contrast with the changing colors of the surrounding trees. Surely the tree drowned and yet its very predicament, this setting in a marsh is what makes it so beautiful. Of course the form of the tree, seductively designed to outwit gravity until the last minute, is its finest feature.
When we were growing up, my father dragged a dead tree home with him and he planted it in a berm in our backyard. The neighbors kidded him. It was quite beautiful.
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