Tree Of Life (Poetry)

She is, for me, my own life drawn
in parallel — she wakes at dawn
in white — her petalsoft attire
damp from dew — the night her sire
the day her mother warming through
her limbs — she stretches to the blue.

Young, she dances in the breeze
among her sisterhood of trees
all gauche but lovely, sapling-strong
and rooted firm. Tradition’s song
well-learnt and humming through her head
sweet visions from a world long-dead.

Maturity — and time’s moved on
the dreams have faded — romance gone
reality has shown its face
and change revealed a colder place —
the friends of youth are scattered — lost
survival comes at sorrow’s cost.

The middle years — where did they go? —
their alternating fire and snow
as seasons blurred and fickle sky
turned traitor — summers glowered by
without a shred of pity for
the rose that withered by the door.

And now the tree counts every ring
and bears each random weathering
whatever life can throw she takes
wiser, too, as morning breaks
she sighs — imagines she can hear
the whine of chainsaws drawing near.