Old Trees of the Field

Something about you calls to my heart, pulling and drawing me farther apart from those I am with; you implore me to see: what are you saying, twisted old tree? You chose not the shelter of forest or town, but out in the wide open fields you put down roots that were hungry, thirsty for truth, with only the blue vault of sky for a roof. You have stood all alone throughout the long years; the sunshine your joy, the raindrops your tears. the snows have lain heavy upon your bare brow, beneath biting winds, writhing, you bowed, Your trunk is gnarled and twisted with pain for fierce were the storms beneath which you strained; yet, in your branches, by cruel winds wrung, the dove has nested and raised up her young. Yes, you have struggled and tasted of woe, but a partner with God you have been and you know-- along with the laughter of leaves comes the sigh, and mingled with joy there is always a cry. I wonder at you as I stand 'neath your boughs: if you could choose over, what would you do now? would you live in the forest or some sheltered glen, or choose, as you first did, the fields and the wind? I know why you call me, my brother, old tree, for the sap in your veins flows also in me; I must drink the cup wholly, both bitter and sweet, for life has no nectar unless it's complete. © 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson