Whispers of a Tree

by gaynorfitzgibbon

There is always a tree.

Outside my window, on a hill, in a copse, along a far east street. An aged mango, a lone Hawthorne, a mighty beech, a giant Rainforest, that speaks to me of blood and tears and pain when being pruned. An errant branch that stretches just a little bit too far, and so, to bring it in line, along they come, with crane and chainsaw to chop it off. They think it looks more tidy. They do not understand the hurt they cause. They do not hear the screams. They do not care. It is not their fault. They do not know.

And you my friend, so much prettier than just one month before.  Forgive me, I did not notice how you have blossomed! How far you’ve come since you were injured –  a wayward car that crashed into your trunk and cut you! You wobbled for a while, dazed by such an insult, unexpected and unjust. And for a few anxious days I feared it would mean your fall, if not by your own desire then theirs. They do not care. It is not their fault. They do not know.

Happily you stood your ground and here you are, embellished with a pretty pink of floating petals. You may be grand my friend but nothing can deny your tenderness and love. For as I peer beyond the grills of my life here within, I thank the gods who gifted me this heart to hear you whisper your sweet words of wisdom. You teach me well and I am grateful for your counsel:

“Every single gossamer of pink rests delicately upon my myriad finger tips, tethered lightly but with a strength beyond compare. Yet all it takes is one sweet breath of air for one or two, then three and four and more to fly!  And when they do, I watch them go with half a heart and nurturing glance in knowledge of my role. Now, they are unhindered, each free to seek a fresh abode.  Some near, some far, I cannot say, they are no longer my journey but their own. Soon, I stand naked again, disrobed, revealed, my branches light and bare. But I do not fear a lack of dignity as I am still whole. The essence of myself remains.  The change around me is not always of my making but I too must change as seasons pass. As sun and wind and tempest set their course around me I have learned to bend with the rhythm of time. The blossom of one age comes and goes but patiently I wait, as one day more will bloom again. It is the way. Rooted to the spot and standing still are not the same my friend.  Remember, for every beginning there must be an end.”