With a fleeting first glance,
I walked past you standing along the path,
instead giving more attention to my footing
and my morning conversation.
But something about your
weathered features struck me. I knew
I needed to see more of you.
So, I turned around.
Retraced my steps.
Approached you, reverently.
Raised my camera ready.
And at that moment,
the sun shone through the clouds,
and through your whole and broken branches,
giving me light enough to take you in.
To appreciate the gnarled beauty of your trunk
and your mottled bark skin, life force rallying |
in your autumn leaves’ amber glory.
And at that moment,
I knew a truth of yours and mine.
That inside both of us is where a poem resides.
A poem that speaks to aging and how it takes us
to the edge. Makes us less visible, and eventually
barely there.
That despite our hard-won strength
and wizened beauty, our steadfast presence
through life’s seasons and storms, soon will come
the one that fells us. Breaks our limbs. Pulls us
from the ground of our being. Then falling
to the earth, or buried deep within,
we’ll become the compost for new life.
Our death our new beginning.