A solitary spire
refuses to bow
to heavy snow.
‘My tree’ communes
with flaky gray sky.
Transplanted late
last fall
I wondered…
Young roots
are so tender…
Would the old
nearby juniper
teach her
the ways of
an overgrown field,
guide her tendrils down
to tap sweet
waters?
Whenever I gaze at
this miniature tree
she tears my heart in two.
I tell her
I won’t be here
to see her reach adulthood –
Junipers live
a thousand years or more.
(or did)
But while I am around
I will love her
as one of my own –
a child with prickly needles
gray green darkening to
emerald when the
Cloud People come.
Whenever I lay down
to rest my weary body
I imagine my feet –
brown roots flowing
out the door to
become one with hers…
Together we rise up
through her spire
find our way back
to my supine body
as a child would return
to her mother
closing a circle
of Love between us
as she listens to
my prayers for her life.
