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(New Poem) On the Treetop
by Joyce Poet
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On the Treetop

Ecclesiastes 3:1&4 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

The golden leaves of autumn
have long dried up
and now lay in brown, crispy blankets
on the frost-hardened ground.
Gray, naked branches seem to cry out
for their covering
to return to them.

Sometimes, I feel that way,
bare and alone,
with the cold, harsh wind
scraping against my skin,
leaving my bones to ache.

Squirrels no longer scamper
up the trunk of the cottonwood.
They’re hiding somewhere warm,
enjoying the tasty treasures
they worked so hard to store up
for this season.

An old, weathered branch
falls to the ground,
leaving a ragged, yellow scar
as a reminder of its presence --
Divine pruning process.
Or, perhaps,
this is what losing
a finger to frostbite
feels like.

I was so young,
so bitter,
so fallen and broken
by my nightmarish past.
your birth changed my world,
so much so,
that I sincerely believed
the sun rose and set
in your hazel eyes
and that life was worth living,
simply because you were born.

Then, seeing it all fall apart,
seeing you all go,
(especially your too-young
baby brother)
was like seeing autumn’s song
silenced by an overly harsh,
overly cruel,
winter storm
that came far too early in the year.

Though I often ache
for a warm summer
of the past,
the occasions don’t come around
quite so often
and my lungs have begun to adjust
to inhaling the biting-cold air.
For a long while,
I wasn’t sure I could live
through having all my newly-budded branches
cruelly torn from me.

But Love whispers
the promises
of laughter and warmth
yet to come,
echoing hope
through my naked branches.

Their excitement reaches up
from their smiles
and settles into the stars
that twinkle in their eyes
when they see me.
The sun shines
in your babies’ laughter,
those delighted cries
when I walk into the room.

They beg me for another
rendition of ‘Rock-a-Bye Baby,’
as though my raspy voice
is the most beautiful music
their innocent ears have ever heard.

A single, tiny sparrow
flits from branch
to topmost branch
of the cottonwood.
A bright cardinal
can’t seem to make up its mind
whether to rest
in the pecan
or apple tree.

I know from a place
deeper than my heart
that those trees will flourish soon,
as green, or greener
than they’ve ever been.
© Joyce Pool

If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be! TRUST JESUS NOW

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Member Comments
Member Date
Tammy McConnell 31 Jan 2006
Joyce, I am rejoicing with you on this day...that at least one of those branches has been restored. One of my branches was pruned (for 10 years). I can't exactly classify it as a restoration, but a brand new branch completely. The deep, deep scar remains, but as a sweet reminder of where I've been and what God has brought me through. The scar tissue serves as a stronger bond in my "new" life. Yes, I also now feel that bond with you. Thank you so much for sharing this deeply personal poem. Love, Tammy
DeAnna Brooks 05 Jan 2006
The ache of every winter season finds its clarion voice within these words. You capture a piece of our 'secret pain' ... lay it bare ... and inbue it with hope. But Love whispers the promises of laughter and warmth yet to come, echoing hope through my naked branches. May Love's whisper never stop speaking His love, His hope, His promise ... and may we each come to share in His laughter ... forever. God Bless You, Joyce!
Sherry Castelluccio  05 Jan 2006
What an intimate view of your life story. I ache with you but know too, that someday winter will be over and you can flourish in your greenery, alive with music.
Barbara Thompson Young 04 Jan 2006
Amen to your last verse! The beauty of brokenness is revealed in your writing. God can do much with a broken vessel.
Mitzi Busby 04 Jan 2006
I believe that we are stronger in the broken places that He has bound up with His love. I too hear Abba's whispers through the harshness of the world and choose to reflect upon the blessings instead of the pain. Thank you so much for your poem, Treava. Love you.
Sharon McClean 04 Jan 2006
You are precious Treava, both to God and to us! You have a wonderful way of helping and touching people with your writings. Love, Sharon


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