Poem – When the Tree Speaks My Name

Weeks have passed since my last visit.

Jack pine needles blanket the pole barn’s roof

a painting of solid green and brown slivers.

The front porch is covered with maple and oak leaves,

spider webs and left-over wood that was cut for fires.

What used to be a driveway is now in the beginning stages

of returning to prairie grasses with spotted wild flowers.

Dragonflies, damselflies, and other winged creatures

casually float 20 to 30 feet overhead and beneath

afternoon blue sky, growing darker as the sun

is sinking below the treeline.

With what little light is left I choose the pruning

shears and work my way to the trail I have spent the past 3-years

cleaning, clearing, and moving deeper into the forest

of countless trees, creatures, and tall guardians.

My goal is to cut branches below 8 feet and leave

a tunnel, allowing more light through and the

path to take on murky, moving shadows.

At the third tree, I stopped, still, silent

and listened as the tree in front of me,

a white birch, spoke my name.

I touched its trunk, felt its heart and energy

and decided that was enough for the evening.

I will leave you untouched, as you are,

guardian of this forest.

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