THE TREE STILL AGING
By John Herlihy

I have walked by this tree a thousand times,
Morning, noon and night in all seasons and climes;
But today in the dying light just before dusk,
I saw the tree for the first time, smelling of musk.

It is a desert tree enduring the endless summer spell,
And the proud national tree of the UAE as well.
It sits on the roadside for centuries going about its pursuits,
Wreathed in a necklace of stones around its tenacious roots.

No doubt the people respect this tree of ageless descent;
Its swarthy trunk unbelievably thick and slightly bent,
Encrusted with wrinkled bark incredibly seamed and rent,
Shady branches cover the nearby mosque like a protective tent.

The tree’s faces mapped with so many mixed emotions.
Wrapped in the draping branches with so many fixed devotions,
Long into the night, as the wind howls in the wadis deep,
The enduring sounds of the tree rock me slowly to sleep.

Why have I never noticed this remarkable tree before,
Ungrateful sinner I am, unwatchful of God’s miraculous lore.
I see a combination of sunset, rising moon and gusting wind,
The massive tree in silhouette trying to curtsey and bend.

She declares herself and her Maker by her graceful presence;
I am overwhelmed to be a disciple of such shy magnificence.
Now when I walk by this gracious tree as a city vendor,
I gaze into the folds of its drapery to hide in its regal splendor.

The wind addresses with persistence every branch and leaf;
Nothing is untouched by the whims of such weather fierce and brief.
The parched tree expands magnanimously with outstretched arms
Every leaf is caressed, bent, and plucked by the wind’s tender palms.

Whether whispering and cooing like a sleeping child,
Or roaring like the waves of an ocean gone wild,
There is nothing sober in this drunken sea of tree,
Bending and bobbing endlessly like a cork lost at sea.

The wild exuberance of the restless tree’s color and motion,
Roaring like a waterfall mimicking some jungle devotion.
The wind soon reduces its voice to a silky murmur,
With final benediction from the light of the sun’s dying burner.

When the storm is over, the tree is refreshed, renewed,
Standing as stately and tall as a mother hen over her brood.
Now fully sober what was once a drunken sea of tree,
I feel myself settling down; I feel the tree in me.

The bone-white full moon shone forth its borrowed light,
Turning the aging tree’s silhouette into an amazing sight;
The long stringy branches leafed in a shawl of green lace,
Its meshwork swaying in the dying wind with a matchless grace.

The attitude of the tree first struck my heart from far,
Filling me with emotions while the heart door was ajar.
We speak of Mother Nature as mistress of the natural order,
But this tree is the Grand Mufti, master and chief warder.

The aging tree is mine and I am hers;
I gaze on her lovingly, I gladly endure her spurs.
She gives me rare insight into the meaning of life;
Her innumerable faces soothe my chronic strife.

This tree will be here long after I am gone,
I witness this tree still aging from my garden lawn.
When God looks into my heart some nobility to see,
I hope He will see the qualities of the tree in me.

The tree still stands proud, valiant and true ,
Like a long line of Bedouin reduced to a ragged few,
Enduring, faithful, noble and set apart,
These are the virtues the tree instills into my heart.