There is a dead birch in the backyard that I’ve been meaning to get rid of for the last two summers. This was the year and I was about ready to do it when I heard a wren, looked up and noticed she had a nest in a hole in the tree ~ sigh, next year maybe or perhaps in the fall?!
(image from photobucket)
As bold and alive as it hungers to be,
needs to be
once again;
the old, dead birch
agonizes over its ability to reach
again , the sky.
Tempted in its thirst,
its roots;
Branches bend to feel its feet
rapture in the spell
of the rain.
Its death leaves it a solitary
description of
desolation.
Betrayed by nature, its
very creator.
Mother of conception.
Surrounded by the vitality
of its peers,
the old birch
denies temptation to
become alone.
To become nothing among life.
Forever dreaming of the stars
and of the ability
to breathe again.
Opening hands to embrace
the natural beauty of its death.
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