Taking Down the Tree

Taking Down the Tree

(…each one wanders off in his own direction; not one will save you. Isaiah 47:15b)

Taking down the trees for summer’s insulation removes the shade,
the shadow, the vantage point under the bough to see the
belly of the mountain jay puffing before the dewy ringlets
rise from the sand and dirt below.

Children play in the sand like bathtubs, while parents play
in the clearing, sucking their bottles before noon.

Taking down the tree for a month’s thermal warming
removes the snow ledges over the forest floor. One stove sputters,
another blasts careening smoke from the hillock to the
background mountains.

Children play in the snow like beaches, while parents play
in the new year, drowning their sorrows near till dawn.

I’ve waited a lifetime for someone from my past
to write me the letter that spells it out clearly.
I’ve watched from my window for someone from a dream
to drive up the gravel to my door
and hand me my happiness just once more.

I would replace the trees if it made a difference,
bounce the children on my knees,
interrupt the adult playgrounds,

Except I’m weary and, this late, this long shadow wait,
I find no place to start, no finish line beside fate.

I lay me down underneath the remaining trees and
admit the same disease begs the therapy it has from the beginning.
I lay me down to rest, my soul,
and listen for the closing sounds,

the hymn’s Amen.