Brigham Kmetzsch

I have a tree.

But, my tree is not a fruit tree,

No blood red rubies whose insides run down

Children’s sun-beaten faces, nor the

Fuzzy ones whose outsides tickle your tongue

Sometimes enough to evolve into an itch.

No, my tree is not a fruit tree.

 

My tree is not a climbing tree.

No jungle gym branches or climbers who cling and swing,

Frightening poor robin as they peek at her nest,

Cuts and scratches collect on their limbs as they find a route to the top.

No, my tree is not a climbing tree.

 

My tree is not a holiday tree.

No jewels that sit and shimmer silver or gold, no ceramic angles nor doggy toys,

Carols aren’t sung about it, presents aren’t wrapped at its base, travelers don’t gawk or stare,

 

It only outfit a simple layer of snow.

No, my tree is not a holiday tree.

 

My tree sits.

Across the street, through a pane of

Glass.  

As I rub my eyes

Try to muster up a thought, I go --

Blank.

 

The tree becomes my thoughts.

Fall, winter, spring, summer;

Rain, snow, wind, sun;

Day, night, dusk, morn.

 

Branches reach and stretch

Up toward a gleaming sun

soaking up an unseen world below.

Getting life from both the darkness and the light,

Roots plunging down deep into the earth.

 

My tree,

My tree --

 

My tree.