Me and My Tree

I contemplate my tree, gray and old shadow,

noble spire as tall as the world.

It touches the bottom of a light evening mist,

not far from the shore of the river,

partly in the meadow, but close enough

to the forest edge to whisper secrets and

hear the sweet chirps of a chipper chickadee.

This song as remembered as the deep dead wood

that was once rich bark, strong and commanding.

 

My tree has only a few branches now,

and the empty, ragged sockets of arms fallen,

some still gathered at its feet, love notes

from the past and the wild weeds who

respect the soldiers of times gone by.

My tree has been a home and a refuge,

a place of protection and safety,

warmth around an evening fire,

but really there was only a pane of brittle glass

between us and catastrophe.

 

At the top of my tree is a strip of dry wood,

holding on for dear life, but looking like

it is hanging on by some hidden trickery.

Will it fall tonight while I sleep?

Or will it hold for another winter yet,

defying the laws of gravity and levity.

I laugh inside.

My tree evokes memories, memories of rich green

bark, the vigor and juices of youth,

shining bright in the afternoon sun.

Leaves as thick as sheeps' wool, but wild,

swinging with the wind, a wild woosh

and the patter of leaves telling jokes

and promising to love better than

love has ever been recorded in the echoes

stored in trees that make a roof over

the heads of fragile animals, silly men,

broken-hearted women.

 

My tree was there at a beginning,

something new, a promise and a hope,

a dream, an earnest intent to make all

errors corrected, sadness turned to joy.

I stood faithfully in the rain.

I carried the snow and ice.

I cast shade over babies and lovers,

over elders pondering the mystery of life.

 

This is my tree.

Still standing gray and shadow,

a bright light remembered.

Hope.  Green hope of the gods.

My tree will become soil.

Something good will fall upon it and grow.

 

        Copyright 2024, John  M. Medeiros