Silver birch
No more,
Scrolls of papery bark
Sloughed off like dead skin.
Roots so deep
They cradle half the hilltop
Can’t hold you there forever.
Already you are worm meat,
A buffet for woodborers and fungi
A footstool for moss and lichen.
Yet you will linger
In my memories.
Two decades of family photos
Have graced your low-slung bough—
Seasons changing,
Inexorable growth and decline.
Like a beloved grandparent
You share with us
The passage of time.
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Sentinels pass, as do all, even mountains.
So true.
It never dawned on me that we would outlive that tree. Currently channeling Shel Silverstein.
Yes, definitely one of those giving trees!
Nobody, from my perspective, dies better than trees, being objects of beauty long after the last leaf has fallen.
And even in death they provide for so many other life forms.
In the forests of the Northwest they are known as nursery trees.
Nursery trees–love it! It makes such perfect sense. Thanks for letting me know.
Truly evocative words and images – beautiful.
Your comment means a lot. Thank you.
Beautiful! A tree as part of the family – so true! Thanks for this wonderful testimony!
You are very welcome.
A fountain of recurrent memories. Nice good tree, good one.
This tree is definitely very special to me.
Love the beloved grandparent!
Thanks, Kiki. Surrogate family can be as important as the real thing sometimes–certainly more steadfast.
Beautiful and poignant, Melissa. Great photos, too. Ex
Emma Shaw-Smith
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Effective – have you read The Giving Tree.
Thanks, Pearl. Yes, Shel Silverstein is one of my favorite authors and poets, and he captured the nature of trees so beautifully and poignantly in that book.
Beautiful photos!
Kind words–thank you.
You’re welcome.
I was so happy to see you post another poem, with photos. I always am moved by your depth of feeling and deft diction. Thank you, and looking forward to the next.
Thanks, Roger. The feelings never stop, but sometimes it’s difficult to find the time and focus to put them down on paper! All the best with your writing! – Melissa
Sometimes it takes years for thoughts and feelings to ripen into a poem. (Often, with me.)