His voice cracked like a whip, sharp, quick, stinging.
There was something
in the way he talked of my stubbornness
that shamed me into humility
and I knew then that I was wrong
to have believed myself an old oak capable of standing firm
as I had in rain storms over time before.
This was a new kind of disaster.
Trees do not bear fire.
This burned.
Leaves wilting, limbs wavering, trunk blackened with smoke,
bark falling away, outer rings consumed by blue and orange incandescence,
saved by the word stronger than flame.
One breath, only a whisper.
Saved, but
weakened. Less grand,
yet whole.
Roots untouched. Still well fed by the spring far below, safe
in dark soil, rich in tiny rotting corpses
that allow life to continue,
miracles and memories to be made,
layers to be renewed over years of children’s laughter
at their father’s climbing,
lovers kissing under hanging moss, carving hearts
around initials, reading poetry,
mothers rocking on front porches, watching and waiting
for fresh summers, bright with hope.
He said something
about the softness of my speech,
the uncommon hesitation in times like these
and I knew then that I was wrong
to have believed myself anything other than a seed,
existing in anticipation of planting.

01/23/2007

Author's Note: ...when you find that what you thought could be over, in fact, isn't... and never will be...

Posted on 01/23/2007
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