Birch
As I sit here on the porch
On a beautiful August day,
I stare at the majestic tree
Rising proudly into the sky.
Regally and silently soaking up
The last rays of the summer sun.
Its white parchment bark is a beautiful
Contrast to its glossy green leaves,
Jagged on the edges
But not as sharp as they seem.
When the wind blows through its boughs
Its leaves make only the softest sigh.
They don’t try to hold the breeze,
But let it slip by and disappear
Like the last draughts of a dying river.
In the summer it stands so proudly,
Giving shade to the children and animals
That play in its coolness, and bask
In its beautiful, refreshing shadow.
Autumn comes, and the tree is cloaked
In splendid shades of saffron and amber.
When the wind blows now the tree
Releases its leaves with sorrowful regret,
Holding onto a few like some precious secrets,
Letting the rest be taken and scattered
Like the dying hopes of a forgotten love.
Soon the tree is decked with snow
And frost clings to its branches.
In the depths of winter
The tree looks so lost, so forlorn,
Like an old stray dog
That’s forgotten its name.
It stands like an old worn-down scarecrow,
Out of place and useless in purpose.
And it’s then, as the icy winds whip
And the flurries fall
That I wonder
If the tree remembers the summer;
The children playing,
Butterflies dancing,
And the songbirds’ ballads.
It’s then, in the midst of winter and the cold,
That I wonder if it remembers
The warmth of the sun,
The rustle of its foliage,
And the splendid sight it was.
I wonder if it remembers
Being truly
Alive.