Poem: The Tree

*****
There was a tree next to the house
when I was young
that loomed large and tangled.
Its dark branches covered the patio
and spilled out over the garage,
Majestic and forbidding.
No one was home,
No one ever actually said, “Don’t”
So
with the spirit of Tom and Huckleberry
to bolster my confidence
I jump to reach the lowest branch
and swing up
like on the bars at school…
Ouch.
In my mind it is easy but
the tiny smears of blood on my arms and legs
as I progress
testify to the contrary.
Never mind.
Climb!
The branches jerk
noisily protesting my encroachment
into its inner sanctuary,
The bark is oddly fragile -
bits break off and crumble to dust in my hands.
Higher, step by careful step,
making sure of each foothold like a mountain climber.
And, there! Lo!
The top of the patio cover!
It is…
Dirty.
Rivulets of rust and
musty moldy leaves.
I am shocked.
And in that moment, aware.
Guilt.
I shouldn’t be here.
Climbing trees isn’t lady-like.
And
empathy for the tree.
Am I hurting it?
I look at my hands,
dirty with disintegrated bark
and blood…
Perhaps we are both wounded.

And yet,
I did it (Yes!).
And the tree
in its rooted silence,
with the wind rustling through its thousand leaves,
Applauds.

*****
(c) Susan Quinland-Stringer
Just a random memory from childhood... one of the few times I did something I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to do becasue it wasn't "lady-like". Remember folks, a different time!!! This incident happened in the mid 60s, I think I was around 8-9 years old.

Just Musing,
Susan