My Precious Squirrel: Memory of a Tree

I was born at the edge of a field 
that captured the shadows at sunset
I was an adolescent, 
when I watched men plant odd, angular rocks
where a  strange, hollow tree sprouted,
maturing unnaturally fast.

I was disturbed to see the creature’s marrow shape, 
no rings, only a labyrinth 
of vertical and horizontal lines

An alien cousin perhaps…

It was some time after the strange tree formed bark
that I saw it glow for the first time…
So many eerie eyes glaring like creatures of the dark
I was chilled to my roots

In summer people came,
squirrels with two legs, they busily made a nest there 
and the tree howled and laughed by day, 
and watched with bright, vigilant eyes at night

The smallest squirrel often wandered away 
and came into the grove of my ancestors
and climbed into my arms;
she seemed so strong
but when she nestled into a crook
and watched the clouds roll over hilltops
seemed so small and fragile,
the weight of her thoughts heavier
than the weight of her body

She came when the sun scoured the field
and before the rain
alone, unafraid
her face always a storm of contemplation.

Sometimes, she would talk to me,
tracing my wrinkles,
asking questions and seeming as if she understood 
the whispered replies from my leaves
and the creaky laughter of my branches.

She made me special. 
She could have sought 
the cradling branches any other,
but she chose me, claimed me as her secret.

Her chubby fingers and tiny feet
tickled my existence 
until she no longer climbed.

Instead, she warmed my roots 
As she stared into the hills,
a magic branch pressed the contours of the valley
onto sheaves of white leaves
replacing her voice.

I imagined her rings forming, 
perfect, wise circles, though no wrinkles etched her bark
she was changing so fast…

And then she came no more, 
none of the squirrels came, 
the strange tree stood abandoned
even when I was dressed in respectable summer green
and I thought, perhaps 
she had found more interesting landscapes.

But one day, she returned, 
the same and yet very different
and brought with her two small squirrels,
each resembling her

They brought laughter into the grove,
climbing branches and squealing in delight
and my old friend once again settled at my roots
with her magic stick and white leaves,
writing and drawing me into her memories

just as my precious squirrel
was already ingrained in the very rings
of my heart.

Copyright © Jean Marble | Year Posted 2007

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