The Power of Mourning.
The huge old Oak tree that so dominated your landscape
for a generation and more, that towered to the skyies
and cast shade in the summer heat,
held the first drops of winter rains at bay,
was slowly, invisibly rotting from deep within,
it's cellulose sinews turning to dust,
held together no longer by inner strength
buy only the shell of itself that seemed so sure and strong
Until winter's storm tore it apart,
exposed it's hollow core as it fell to the ground
in a crash that shook the very earth on which you stood,
and left you exposed to the skies.
And so it was that for weeks, nay, months, you tore at the debris,
cutting and chopping the rotted wood into splintered chunks
a single man could handle and haul, and cast into the fire.
Day after day, you pulled the corpse of that tree apart,
tears at it's lose coursing down your face,
while bright sun, winter's cold rains and the winds of winter
pelted you and added to the agony
of your loss.
But still, each day, each painful sad day,
you cut another and another and yet another
small portion of that once powerful oak away,
and took it to the fire, your tears blurring the flames,
making them seem a torture of light and death,
until this day, when no trace is left of that oak,
save the scarred earth beneath your feet,
and crying no more, you dig in that scar,
tearing away the dark earth fed by ashes and tears,
and tenderly set the new shoot,
small and willowy, trusting beyond hope,
in God's power to someday bring life to this empty field,
Life that will grow straight and tall,
stronger and true to the very stars,
bringing once again, beauty, shade,
and a place to rest your soul on a summer's afternoon.
============The photograph is not mine but from wabberjockey on flickr. It's used with a creative commons license. Wabberjockey has some amazing nature photographs and it's worth checking out his flickr site.