I remember my first spring
Ready to blossom, a flexible sapling
Waving my limbs to the melody
of the pinecones’ chimes
Resistant to the persistent assault
of each pecker’s beak
Leaving sappy sweet resin
on their tongues
The first rain impregnates my veins
Plump to nourish my fragile fruits
Until they’re full and begin to wane
Egotistical as it may seem
I don’t want my acorns to fall
to far from the tree
Knowing my shade may protect them
From the intense glare of summer’s sun
Gutsy winds of change rip
the vibrant colors off my back
Humbly I stand firm against the fall
Trying not to attack
the process of Mother
Tested to be tried and true
Preparing for the inevitable
bitter midnight blue
Accepting the temporary winter solstice
Procrastinating birds sit
on my weakened foliage
Rings of age circle around my core
Deep roots begin to coil
A laborious chore to grip
the unstable soil
As I remember that first spring
I stand barren waiting for the cleansing fires to clear the way
Brittle, I bow
Watching the last stoic leaf lay
I submit to gravity’s beckoning
Reckoning this life
So that a new green hope
may grow from my ashes
Explore the mystery of how nature makes unexpected gifts of creative wonders to an unsuspecting caregiver one late night and early morning in southeastern Georgia, USA.
