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Poem

Sitting, cradled in the limbs of what I had determined
was the most secure outpost of childhood uncertainties,
I came to the realization that I alone had just discovered
the relationship of death to life.  This elder statesman of 
Oak, that held high court over my uncles pasture, always
provided cover and a portent for any impending incursion
to the sanctity of my domain.  But today, my old friend was
for me a teacher.  With my back to his massive trunk, he 
provided shelter from a chilly north wind that would foretell
the inevitable change that was this life lesson.  I sat 
mesmerized watching, what seemed like one at a time,
each leaf, the offspring of my guardian, as it surrendered
to the wind, cascading to its rest.  The beauty of this 
descent and the feather-like bed of honey and ginger 
pillows they formed seemed to confirm they understood
their role as keepers of warmth and revival.  It was as if no
life was ever without meaning even in its death; ever. I saw
their dignity. I, on that day, came to better understand my own. 
The complexity was so simple, as defined in his explanation. 
To my old friend and teacher, I remain in your arms 
and forever in your debt.

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