Dogwoods

by t.0. crow

For over 25 years, I have watched them leaf,

flower, and fruit through the frame of my

living room windows.

Some years the flowering is breathtaking,

making the heart ache

with the beauty of their whiteness.

Other years, the fall color is the spectacle:

The leaves bleeding red.

The berries full and ripe causing limbs to droop

from the weight of them.

This year, I watch as the squirrels

go about the business of winterizing

knowing they are happy for a good year.

For the berries are thick and bright and

wild lives will be changed by them.

Both fur and feather will be fed

and tiny seeds dropped to make new beginnings

in some fertile place.

It is almost two years since you've gone.

The berries hang fat and ripe on the dogwoods

but my heart is heavy with a yearning -

a longing - that I cannot name.

If I were a young seedling,

I could be transplanted to new ground.

But my limbs are no longer supple and

I fear they might break from the weight of my solitude

as they creak and moan at the coming of winter.

October 2001

Revised Dec. 2008

TOC