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.
Typhanie,
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
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