Treewhispers

The strange thing is how the tree loves me back.
Rooted–obviously–in one place yet
those tendrils connect–subterraneously–to me.
Bark thick, corrugated, elephant skin
yet penetrable:  witness the tender spot
where inner wood lies exposed.
An animal?  A storm?  A spirit?
Or an example of how an old warrior
can be wounded and survive.

I touch your wound and begin to heal.
I wrap my arms around your fullness and am filled.
I step back, gaze a the whole of your reaching,
stretching until my fingertips brush eternity.
When your heart-shaped leaves rustle
my heart whispers, too.
When they fall upon the earth
I know that I am earth, too.
And when the waning light
turns your bare branches gold,
I’m rich–I own the world.

Maker of tree, sky, earth and me–
How in the world did You make the tree love me?

–Laura Bernstein