I walked the same pathway almost every day,
And passed the same dead Hickory tree.
It's cover of bark had all rotted away.
The trunk was as smooth as could be.
The tree had more scratches than all in the valley,
Being wrought by a squirrel's little claws.
It seemed to be counting, likes marks on a tally,
The passage of so many paws.
I passed it in summer, and on into fall,
And swiftly the winter drew near.
These traces of life on a dead wooden wall
Had somehow become something dear.
Then one day I realized, while there in the park
The shadow of life will soon fail.
It turns in a circle with decreasing arc.
What's left is a tuft by the trail.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Glad you are back writing!
ReplyDeleteThank you very much, but I must confess. So far, all of these poems were written during the time that I was going through a severe depression. Writing turned out to be a way to purge some negative feelings. I had never attempted to write much before then. 1997 was the worst year of my life until 2000 arrived. You will probably pick up self-loathing and themes of death. I am not as negative in reality as San can attest to. I do realize that I went through that stage in my life for a reason, (everything has a purpose). Maybe one day I will understand it.
ReplyDeletePerhaps someone who is also depressed will find your blog, read your poetry, and realize he/she is not alone. Granny always said, "There will be better days, San."
ReplyDeleteThe sun is shining and I don't have a migraine today. It is after all, a better day.