The Story Tree
Another morning walk
this time to the story tree
to see what tales might be found
tucked between its well worn bark
The story tree, with all its wobbling rings
piling up in stacks of years
sorted and stored away inside
like memories of all the travelers before
I lean in and listen for those groaning years
rich with ghosts and a good story or two
of all those folks that passed by
with all the barbed wire curvature of their lives
This old story-tree growing tall and crooked
what tales it might whisper
with all the thorn rich rasp of its leaves
just another morning walk
The old story tree didn’t last the Fall. An early morning storm knocked it over not too many days after I first wrote this. Is it odd to miss a tree?
This poem and others I wrote about this old tree was inspired by an actual tree not far from my house. It was the kind of tree that commanded attention, but could be easily overlooked if you weren’t tapped into your surroundings. It wasn’t the tallest tree, and certainly not the most appealing. It was twisted, tall, defiant with its visible age.
My father and his before, as well as my many aunts and uncles all grew up and lived not far from where I live now. I imagined them passing this tree from time to time in the various turns of their own lives. I imagined the many others and their many stories too. And from all of these imagined situations, the idea of the story tree, pardon the pun, took root.
The rest, like the tree itself, is history.
I hope you enjoy.