Tree nymphs are a dying breed.
There were thousands here; but they fell.
Now there’s just me.
Alone on this hill.
At the top of this field of green.
A handsome young man comes regularly.
Leans his back against my tree.
With a strong voice he reads poetry.
I pretend he knows I listen.
Like his love is for me.
But as the sun goes, so does he.
I wait for him.
The days pass, then the weeks.
I’m so silly.
But what else is there.
Today he will visit this Eden of grass and sky.
I race to the border of my freedom to watch.
At the end of the tree’s farthest reaching root, I sit.
There is a man walking closer, but ever so slowly.
Is it he?
Arriving at the trunk of my home the gentleman sits comfortably.
No, this man is older.
His face; it’s not the same.
But as he speaks, the years melt away.
A voice deeper and worn, though I know it is his.
Has it been so long?
Now his words speak of wisdom.
Poems recounting a life long lived.
The sound of his voice falters, his eyes drift closed, he goes quiet.
Don’t leave again…
They bury him at the base of my soul.
He tells me love stories and we dance in the leaves.
As long as my tree stands.
Eternally young and free.
Art is mine.