May 6, 2020
Renewal
How is it that something young, fresh, and perfect emerges from an old tree? Bark is hanging loose on some of its branches,
and lime-green moss appeared recently, suddenly, on trunk and limbs. How does a tree live again, this tree whose leaves blackened
and shriveled last year before summer's prime, and whose branches twist around upon others, scraping raw sores into bark?
I've been worried. I've watched this tree grow from an accidental sapling into maturity, replacing a predecessor already a bleached gray ruin when I arrived.
I've thrilled to the life and movement within its canopy as it reached my eye level and then grew higher.
I've clung to my existence as one single brown leaf clung to its twig, battered by wind and sleet all winter long.
Now I feel relief and hope for this tree. With Spring have come new leaves, just as in every year. This tree, my tree, has a chance.
It has survived a construction project and disruption of its soil, beer parties and the ensuing leaks,
an autumn heavy snow which broke tree branches city-wide. But now again will come the slim little woodpecker and the large, impressive hawk,
the robin, the cardinal, the bluejay, and the pigeons, and the small migrating birds whose names I will learn.
I will watch these light green leaves grow larger and darker in color, shimmer in the breeze and toss in the wind,
and turn golden yellow and brown in their time.
