I close my drapes against inky
skies although sometimes I’ll peep
on clear nights to see which stars
have come to linger
between her branches.
Predawn, her massive dark trunk
rises from the fog
that clever whitewash obscuring
humans have carved
in the landscape. I am in love
with her lines, the grace
of her seasons, the 200-year-old
carriage, mettlesome dance past
meddlesome people who devastated
the wild places of her ancestors.
Sometimes I sit by her roots
and lean against her bark, or circle
around with my grandson, in genuine
puzzlement with each disappearance.
She delights in concealing him,
subtle guidance to pause just here,
now change direction, his giggles
ricocheting love vibrations
to the very top. Just now
every branch is a complex poem
praising the lightening sky,
our interwoven connection,
every hidden root
pulsing deep in our
celebration of being.