Tree of Life
Limbs dark and cold thaw in the spring air, lifeblood stored in my subterranean network pushes towards the sky; so sweet and abundant that I can spare a drop or two for you.
In the new warmth, tiny buds form and push outward, filling the canopy and blotting out the sun from the path below.
Branches teaming with life, caterpillars feed on the leaves that breathe in carbon and exhale oxygen; beetles and weevils prefer the dark spaces hidden beneath my bark; robins, woodpeckers and jays nest and rest and feast and hide within my cover; and squirrels burrow in the hollow recesses of my long dead core.
On hot summer afternoons, you lay your blankets and open your baskets beneath my open arms, sharing a meal and laughing while seeking the respite of an old friend away from the relentless sun.
I am a tree of life, supporting my own biome from deep in the ground to the tip of the farthest branches but it is only for a fleeting moment and so I drop my seeds; spinning like propellers to the ground ensuring the next generation stands long after my seasons have faded into the forest floor.
Soon my branches turn from green to red and yellow and orange; my leaves, their purpose fulfilled in an endless annual cycle, fall to the ground and crunch beneath your feet; again I sleep hoping, waiting for the long winter to end.
Photo Credit: Unknown.
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.