You
and I have traveled well together for many years.
Orange, blue, blue, yellow, white, silver blue: I have trusted you in
all your incarnations. We have seen
seedlings become trees, and we have seen trees bursting with buds turn green
then red then winter bare. We have seen
trees ravaged by insects and latticed by woodpeckers. We have seen scores of trees bend and break
in the path of tornadic storms. We have
seen trees cut, quartered, dismembered, mulched, and then hauled away by
earsplitting trucks. We have seen trees
in splendor and in despair.
It is now October of our accumulated years together. The trumpeter swans have returned to winter
in the nearby lake; the hummingbirds have all flown to sunnier climes. The nights are getting longer and soon you
and I will part company for six full moons.
While I retreat to my chair to read beside the fireplace, you will stand
in wait behind locked doors.
As the ground thaws and the trees grow pregnant with buds, I shall leave
the warmth of the house to cross the dormant lawn. Ever so carefully, with failing eyes, I will
turn the dial clockwise, counterclockwise, then clockwise again. Reluctant, the battered lock will release and
the doors to the shed will fold open like rose petals in the spring.
There I will find you with dust clinging to your lean frame and flat
tires looking forlorn from the long winter.
No matter. I will dust you off
and air you up and we will ride through the forest in reverence, breathing in
pine, dazzled by the light.
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