A red dawn pierces the leaves on the Birch. He lives just off the cobble stone road on top of Fox Hill, where I walk everyday for a conversation. No one else is ever present, and the birds don't even take notice of me anymore- to them I am just another tree. For you see the Birch and I are the best of friends, and we do exactly what best friends do: we tell our stories on top of Fox Hill.
We never do speak loudly and there really is no need to talk at all- a silent discussion with bark and blood.
The Sun always interrupts but we never tend to mind, for his interruptions are welcome and entertaining. He can't resist in teasing the Birch. Weaving his rays in and out of the leaves, playing follow the leader. My eyes always do follow (whether I admit to it or not) for the sun always puts on a phenomenal display. He saves the most poetic and nimble of his rays for our conversations on Fox Hill. Using the reds and purples and pinks to compose a masterpiece of distractions- a vortex of pastels and fiery moons that God himself could not turn away from.
The Birch and I laugh at his childish traits and invite him to stay and chat. The Sun, Birch, and I spend the morning in this silent poem- laughing, crying, and enjoying the chilled air in our veins, roots, and soul. But as the morning dies and the Sun grows old, I announce my leaving and we end out thoughts with joyous intentions of continuing them tomorrow. I say goodbye and good-day to the Birch and Sun, and start retracing my steps down the cobble stone road. And as I look back to our sacred meeting place-to my two old friends- I raise my head and call, "You make my life worth living. You let me love to wake." And as I turn to leave, two whispers descend to my ears rolling off the road on Fox Hill. And in the chorus of the whispers is silence- as clear as the wind in the fall- silence.
No comments:
Post a Comment