M E R I D I A N     M A G A Z I N E

Poetry: Invisible Pleasures
Compiled by Jim Richards, poetry editor

Even if we could render all the thanks and praise which our souls have power to possess, we would still be unprofitable servants (see Mosiah 2: 20-21). We would still fail to notice many of the simple blessings of daily life, many of the small joys we experience in small things, many of the quiet blessings from a caring God. Karen Awalt Mogenhan’s poem, "The Old Mulberry Tree," reminds us to appreciate these "invisible pleasures."

The Old Mulberry Tree

      In the springtime it was always the last to leaf out.
      In the summer it cast glossy-green shade.
      In the autumn its gold leaves didn't fall until Thanksgiving.
It was in winter when the naked truth of the old Mulberry tree was revealed.
      It showed its long life with twisted limb,
      Scarred wood, unsightly gashes and holes.
      It suffered lightening strike, untold draughts, city buzz saws.
      Some named it ugly.
But I thought its history and age brought it a certain beauty, respectability, even grace.
      Now, that history lies in eighteen inch chunks of varying diameter.  
      The trunk shows rot in the center.
      I know nothing of the tree's history but what the wood tells.
I know nothing of the hand that planted it, the children that played under it,

the love that bloomed near it.
      I see only its old age, when it had become a hazard to the house;
      With leaping squirrels, snakes at the hollowed base,
      Sheltering common birds in its knotted and gnarled wood.
      How could I refuse the offer to have it removed,
      Taken out, cut down, for free.
I knew it was time, its time had come and gone.
      It's amazing how quickly we humans adjust to newness.
      Already I am used to the streetlight shining in my face at night.
      Already I am used to the clear view of road traffic.
      Already I am used to the emptiness of that spot outside.
But I fear I will never get used to the silence, the silence that greets me every morning.
      It once was filled with uncommon birdsong,
      Beauty for listening ears, beauty for the soul at the start of day.
      When I said yes to the asking, I did not think of music,
      My waking moments, that invisible pleasure.  
      My thoughts were immediate, convenient, worldly.
The true measure of the tree was not in diameter, height, breadth or rings.
      It was not in what it was, but in what it gave.
      That music will never again be removed from my life,
      I will always remember the old Mulberry tree.

About the Poet
Karen Awalt Mogenhan is a native New Yorker who has been living in Kentucky for over twelve years now, and loves it. She just sent her older son off on his mission, and feels like she is completing the circle by sending her own son out to give to others the wonderful blessing she received from the missionaries fifteen years ago when she was tracted out by them.  Her family was sealed together in December. She is a part-time student at the University of Kentucky, who does seasonal work, and is planning to restart her job as a yearbook photographer. She serves as Young Women’s president in her ward.

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