Tree

Photo: Charles David Miller

I knew well the tree that bore

the fruit of songs. It harbored stars

and the gentle Spring wind and called

into life dawn where the orioles perch.

The red dog chased the rubber ball

while the black dog ate white fish

on the shores of lakes without end.

We swam in waves that stretched

to the farthest shore, there where

the light-house beam cuts night in two.

Ships afloat with iron bullion steered

past wilderness and tracked the

water like Leviathan seeking rest.

We felt what earth and sky and dream

felt, for their names were on our lips

like the flower that blooms at night

and opens with dew on its buds.

Our tread echoed the deer on the moss,

our feet raced the horse to the sun,

our eyes scanned mountain tops

as we dove in and out of the wind.

It was a day like no other, when earth

began its wail. We sought shelter

beneath the tree, huddling close

in our skin that each knew as the other.

We had no fear then, only concern

that the sun might consume the fields

and char the remnants of our joy.

There was only concern that skin

might turn to powder like the leaf

in autumn or the wood in fire.

Then the sky spewed out its poison,

the lakes went dry and the white fish

flapped gray and sick in crusting mud.

The skies themselves

flamed colors we'd never seen,

sick with revenge and anger.

It was then we left, not to return.

I knew that tree that sang our joy.

It stands there still, behind the gates

of fading memory and angel sword,

lit by anger and despair for what we had done.

(c) Copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.