What You See

I saw something

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.