Your simple, sturdy branches
between scratched legs and
bare feet once transformed
a simple boy into
a king,
an emperor,
a conqueror
of jungles, oceans, deserts, mountains -
so many that I believed
your powers were endless,
and were mine.
Just a boy, we are always being reminded.
Just a boy, we are constantly being told.
But you let me have it, for as long as I wanted,
in whatever way I could imagine,
as long as I stayed within your budding grasp.
Now
I have come back to this backyard,
these woods, and I am
so tired from living with the brutality of the decorated world, though I know it is my place, and I must return.
You stand here dying, my old friend,
on this February morning,
in snow falling too soft and meaningless
to ever stick.
You stand here dying, you son of a bitch,
and it's only a matter of time now
as I sit
leaning my back against
your hollowed trunk
wishing you
would now
lean against me,
that I could take the weight,
any weight,
let alone yours.
If I could, maybe for a moment,
we could make each other young,
strong and fearless against all comers,
while laughing at these seasons,
the way we once did
together.
Dresher, PA - 2/9/08
2/10/08
To The Climbing Tree
