Some believe the slumber
Of trees is in December
     When timber’s naked under sky
And squirrel keeps his chamber.

But I believe their fibres
Awake to life and labour
     When turbulence comes roaring up
The land in loud October,

And plunders, strips, and sunders
And sends the leaves to wander
     And undisguises prickly shapes
Beneath the golden splendour.

Then form returns. In warmer,
Seductive day, disarming
     Its firmer will, the wood grew soft
And put forth dreams to murmur.

Into earnest winter
With spirit alert it enters;
     The hunter wind and the hound frost
Have quelled the green enchanter.

This was not the poem I had planned to write about first, or even at all, but a few days ago I exchanged a few comments with someone on Facebook about Lewis’s poems, and I remembered my favourite one, and thought, “I’ll write about this one first instead of the other.” Then on my way to the library to get the book, I remembered another one and thought that would be it; and then while thumbing through the book, I found this one which I have no recollection of ever reading before, but I must have, because I’ve read them all, I think.

The reason I chose "Pattern" is because it echoes so well what I feel about trees in winter. That is when I love them best. It isn’t when they look the loveliest, except perhaps when they are covered in snow, or turned to gold by the setting sun the way we were talking about earlier. They reveal those prickly shapes. You can see the real tree, and read its story in its broken branches and bent trunk.

That last line about the green enchanter reminds me of The Silver Chair and the Lady of the Green Kirtle, and her green smoke that masks the truth.

I’m pretty sure that this won’t be the last Lewis poem that I select.

—Janet Cupo is a great-grandmother (and a great grandmother) on temporary (maybe) sabbatical from the workaday world.