There sits an aging tree claiming quite a life of his own,
he gladly accepts the role of the everlasting backbone.
I have watched him bow, bend, and grow,
through the sultry August evenings,
the frigid Novembers littered with leaves,
the ablazed May air and the mourning October mornings.
With his boughs filled with redbuds that blossom and cling,
with his boughs growing steady with each fleeting spring,
I’ve watched this tree scream, shout, and declare,
that no other tree could ever compare.
Yes,
this tree knows its own worth; it knows all its strengths,
it knows each root, each flower, each length.
Years turn to decades as his roots grow coarse,
he ages with seasons that pass away with remorse;
yet he knows in the depths of December’s worst storms,
that his redbuds never falter, nor quiver, nor conform…
So I trek out during January, when the new year transforms,
my tears frozen still
but my heart so warm;
I inscribe eight letters:
R E S U R G A M,
one for each tear;
his truth touched all seasons,
yet it is the goodbye I most fear.
Snowfall grows deeper, buries his vulnerable roots;
flakes fracture budding branches, but never his upward route.
As gone as he may be, as much as he might have dreamt to flee,
he’ll hold us close until we see, because
he is the strongest tree.