Sunday Evening

It was the walk to the swamp
We had to find
Or the hands we held
On the way there
Fingers finding their way toward each other
Embracing and releasing
The joy of joining
Limbs and thoughts
As I panted to keep up with your
Too long legs

It was the walk back home
The squirrels that stole bird food
And the branches that were
Showing just enough
To keep us guessing as to
Who they might become

It was the opening of the door
The stepping in
The silence
That held no weight
The sound that had
No presumption of
Remaining

It was the work that
Had to be done
The math that needed solving
The clothes that needed folding
The meal we shared
The late night pains that come with
The baby we both await

It was the break you took
To help me up, to warm the tea
To listen
To help me understand the us in this moment

It is
Our life
We are building
With each was and is
And remember when.

Oh, the stories we will tell
The ones that seemed most unlikely
The ones that were placed in our palm
The chances we took, and those we reserved
The moments that happened between the blinks
Of our life

But
We will also recall
stories
too simple to share

And those
I will jot down
to read to you
When we are
Alone.

Lessons from a Tree

Bloom fully and with intention
Know each season, and live it with a healthy dose of abandon
know when to hold on and when to let go
Squirrels will take from you with or without your approval. Let them. They will help share your seed.
Give shade – there are those who need you
Bend with the wind
Cherish and honor your roots, no matter how tangled. Without them, you would not be here today.
Grow deep roots, but reach high and wide. It is possible.

Lately, I have been noticing living things around me. Even those silent, still things – the ones I had not realized were around. There is a tree, just outside our apartment, that defies natural law. As the winter chill came in, even the most stubborn of leaves finally detached, and returned from where they came. But this tree decided to hold on to its leaves. Dead and unresponsive, what a struggle it must be to keep holding on to something so ripe to depart. So, as its top branch tips congeal, its bottom branches prefer to believe summer, or at least spring is around the bend. How difficult it must be to outsmart seasons; to wish for something impossible; to hold on to something dear and gone. How this tree sticks out, in a very odd way. Every morning, I check on this tree like an old friend. Observing, wondering when the time will feel right, and the leaves will drop, and imagine the tree’s joy in discovering there is beauty in being bare, and alone; there is still love where the leaves lived last.