I have never written a poem.  There is my disclaimer.  But I can’t get the image of a particular tree in Alaska out of my mind.  And so I wrote words—words that tumbled out of my mind and onto a page.  Perhaps you might find some meaning, some hope, from these few words spilled, even if it’s not really a proper poem . . .

 

The Harvester Tree

She stands, vulnerable.

Northeaster howls, swirling leafed-out arms.

On high cliff stuck in green bladed skin, jaded,

Overlooking bay below, waters churn.

Sap burns.

Grassy layer of anchor—

Will it hold?

When life blows tough and threatens to topple,

Able to tear away,

Will she lose to the tempest,

No depth to withstand life’s fury?

If tree could see beneath,

Beyond the thin,

If tree could believe

The stalwart cliff grips,

Steel-colored rock grounds,

And even the stones grow bittersweet life.

Let her yearning roots run deep through fissures

And deeper still, cracks creating space.

Looking, longing—

For foundation,

For permanence.

She shakes,

She bends,

She even fears.

One more blast

Before tree breaks?

Does she hold hope?

Or does hope hold her?

Or maybe they both hold each other?

Embracing, enduring,

Til squalls strong

Cease to beat and threaten and scream—

When calm comes again,

When winds weaken and quiet,

And tree discovers

She can stand

Uprooting,

Even dying.

And she will rest

Till the next Northeaster,

Stronger for the blowing,

Now resilient roots growing deeper still

Into the rock,

Into the knowing—

Never will she stand

Alone

Without

Hope

 Rooted

Firm and forever

in God’s endless grace.