The Tree
It all began from a seed,
a tiny being left alone.
Who could tell it later might
Have roots that could
crack stone?
Or a trunk
larger than my embrace?
Or limbs to support my weight?
Its canopy was lush and thick,
filled with chirping birds.
That is, until the winter came.
Before the night was too far gone
the tree was laced in ice.
And with the first rays of dawn,
that gentle giant was cracked in two.
When spring began to shine,
in its place was something new.
A skeleton, a ghost of sorts,
where my favorite place once was.
Now I walk, where once I climbed;
I sit, where once I hung.
And now I kneel beside the bough
onto which I clung.
The tree, the being of the past,
is not truly dead.
Those roots that could crack stone,
miraculously are still in place.
So there are leaves of brilliant green
sprouting from my favorite place.