old growth
I have work to do this morning
but I keep running into poems
that give me pause and pull
my gaze out my second-story
window to the dance of
sunshine and shadows on
the fence line, the blanket
of dead leaves turning to soil
and the trees, their bare branches
reaching or — perhaps — offering
their despair and determination
without a leaf to show for it.
My heart knows the same song
the trees are singing in their
slumber — they are not skeletons;
dead and dormant are not the same.
It’s what you said as we walked
yesterday in the fading light:
“The trees never quit growing.”
I want to say the same of me.
Peace,
Milton
Having just turned 74 years of age, I want to say the same. Thanks, Milton.
You’re welcome, Leah.
Peace
Milton
Milton,
I, too, experience insights and epiphanies while looking out of my office window. I want you to know that you are a profound inspiration to me, and I love reading your poems.
Thanks, Ragan.
Peace
Milton
I love this imagery. I am completely entranced by bare tree limbs in winter’s night or limited light. It has become my soul image and your words add to its dimension.
Thanks, Terry.
Peace
Milton
How I resonate with your poem as I sit here looking out at the bare pecan orchard (and at email and facebook!) while upstairs sit many boxes awaiting attention! I don’t feel so alone anymore! 🙂
Thanks, Suzanne.
Peace
Milton
Your poem paints a nice mental image. What a gift it is to keep growing.