Dry. Smooth? Not smooth ' rough. Light!
Weighs-nothing-wood. I move my finger
to slip over the top end and find smooth.
A clean cut. A harsh chopping off.
A crack has appeared in this fossil.
It's old - dirt-encrusted, making
the fissure stand out from the beige
of light and dark mottled skin.
This portion of dead branch has been
Displaced into my open, mature hand.
It is bowed, perhaps with the weight
of brilliant blossom in fertile times.
But with age and exile, the object
bears no hint of past profusion.
No scar of leaf or flower on this twig,
only grooves carved into dry, brittle skin.
Viewed from the polished top, a solid
golden core exposed betrays its strength.
Marred by a red blemish - perfect oval,
tree blood showing the pain of severance.
Where did you come from, severed arm?
I muse that once, you stood in proud
grandeur. High, looking down on sheep
grazing red/green grounds beneath
your ghostly mother. Her children
housing nests, hollows, where new life begins.
Waving in the sweeping wind. Bowing
to earth's elements. Dressing for season's ball.
Perhaps a young boy climbed your sturdy
limbs seeking adventure, chasing the sun
to knock a parrot's nest ' not caring
about fragile eggs of new families.
You remind me of my mother. Strong
soft arms. Her honesty. Loveliness with
no frills ' truth beauty. Lines of age,
welcomed, ambition nixed for proud duty.
The shiny core of subtle strength always
known. Intelligence when winds buffeted.
Fissures evidence damage ' results of force
against will or wanting. Life wasn't always easy.
My mother has been gone for a long time now,
but hugging this piece of dry, light branch,
comforts me. Memories of easy protection.
Naturalness seasons of promise and acceptance.
I remember her hands at the end. Dry, mottled,
beige and brown. Raised for swift relief, clutching
mine in death. Cold. Clever hands, now unable.
Heat - my warmth trying desperately to infuse life.
