The Favorite Tree

 

favorite tree
Remembering a favorite silver oak tree from my childhood and playing around it’s bare roots and soil. I’d pick a stick and draw in the dirt.

Significant the the amount of time

or the quality of time spent

the time as a child

playing in the shadows and dappled light

at the base of a tree

a silver tree

a silver oak tree

that dropped acorns

and twigs

and tassels

and leaves

onto the sandy dirt where its roots were washed bare.

It seemed to stand at the base of the hill

holding the hill back and up.

Because without this massive oak it might not

have allowed the seedling to grow into a small line of hedges.

Without it and the small line of hedges

the rain would have worn the hill away.

And on that hill

was my house.

The houses foundation

cracked and imperfect

because too much hill too fast has slipped away.

But the tree that was allowed to grow

stood firm.

And I sat in the sandy soil

with its twigs in my hands

sketching

in the shadows and dappled sunlight

for a time

waiting for the leaves to turn

waiting for the leaves to fall

waiting for the snowy boughs

waiting for the dripping icicles .

icicles

icicles

waiting for the green buds

then the drop of inch worms

inchworms and warm breezes and then

the trill of grasshoppers.

Sketching.

Lost in the warmth

the cold

the wetness

the dryness

the comfort or discomfort of the moment.

Not knowing that without the tree

there was no shrubs

and without the tree and shrubs

their was no hill

and without the hill

there was no house.

All under a tree.

Sketching.

Significant.

Or insignificant.

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