that sent me running to you.
A refuge to my youth,
I shimmied up your trunk.
Little calloused hands traced
your library of bark -
layers on layers of stories,
all you’ve seen...
Did you see what I saw? I wonder.
Tell me, I whisper,
what do you see?
I wonder, I wonder...
What else has your gaze held?
What first kisses?
What tears?
What fears made real?
What birds have first flown from your arms?
What tales do your bones hold close?
I wonder...
Whenever I pray,
I pray to you.
Giver of life, I breathe you in
and breathe you out in
an offering of kinship -
my half of the circle,
a gaze going two ways.
A gateway to other realms,
kingdoms in your branches
made of starlight,
you send forth magic.
You see, know all, and don’t tell - like
god...
Steadfast, silent - except
for a whisper in a breeze.
Tell me, tree,
what do you see?
Everyday I watched you
watch me
from outside my window,
doing the unthinkable.
Steady, you stay
like your gaze -
not searching or sidetracked by
something shiny or new,
but me, who is right in front of you.
Again and again
the unthinkable...
I prayed,
you stayed...
God.
Let me tell you, tree -
thank you for not telling what you see.
I whisper,
it’s taken me a while to see that
you
see
me.
