Birch

These are important,too: Shadows cast by sunlight on the stone fence, Steaming sunbeams cutting through the oaks, Dappling my forest floor, Breezes whisking through the berry bushes and laurel That line my country road. But the gently arching birch is my soul's mate- Graceful solitary centerpiece, she sits atop a hillock Behind my little house. Today she whispers gently of yellow and burgundy days to come. I have an urge to sit on one of her branches But I will not test my stiffened limbs and climb her. So I touch her grainy white bark instead, Fancying I will absorb her pliant strength, Believing that I will survive the many coming winter storms And one day see me dead. The birch and I have become quite the couple: She is the ideal spouse-silent, non-judgemental, Listening attentively to all my thoughts, Suffering my changing moods with equanimity, She shakes a bough in response: It's entirely easy to love a tree. Had I my way, I should be buried at her feet, And let her roots grow round about me, Absorbing my corporeal being. She already has my spirit! Perhaps she will sprout a birchling Nourished by my flesh and bone. Silly old man am I Absurdly fanciful even in my dotage. The birch and I are genial companions, We welcome the morning light together: The birch dripping dew, I, shaking off thoughts of death, As we greet the wondrous new-born day.