The Mother Tree

Shelley Ayres

It arrived in the mail, a remembrance, you see

That was soon to be called “The Mother Tree”

My mother died in March, his, the previous November

The acorn sprouted on Mother’s Day, a perfect way to remember

A little pot was in order to plant the little sprout

It was nurtured with love, the essence of what Mothers are all about

After a move to a larger pot to withstand the summer heat

It is now growing in our yard with plenty of room to wiggle its feet

One day its branches will grace our home with shade

Like the wings of angels in a tree that God made

 

9/14/2013

 The Elm Tree

Shelley Ayres

The elm tree is a sentinel in our back yard.

It provides welcomed shade on summer days like this one.

A long rope hangs from a branch that seems to be as high as the sky itself.

I place the charcoal in the grill and squirt on the lighter fuel.

Strangely, I enjoy that smell.

My mom strikes a wooden kitchen match and tosses it onto the soaked charcoal.

The instant flare makes us both jump back and turn our faces away.

Soon the aroma of the chicken takes over.

I am pulled to the waiting rope hanging from the tree.

To climb to the top and touch the branch from which it descends.

As I hang there spellbound by the view my mother comes out to tend to the chicken.

With wide eyes and a hint of fear in her voice she commands that I come down.

I know this battle is futile.

I slowly retreat with bowed head and wet eyes.

September 08, 2013

The Mulberry Tree

Shelley Ayres

I climb the crooked slats nailed to the trunk of our gnarly old mulberry tree.

My safe haven waits patiently for my return.

I reach the plank floor of the tree house and swiftly lie on my back.

I exhale a smile at the leaves waving at me from their branches.

I feel the dappled warmth of sunlight on my skin.

I inhale deeply, consuming the scent of ripe berries and old wood.

With each breath I distance myself from the uneasiness that had invaded me.

The tree, my tree, is the calmness that I crave.

This tree is magical.

September 8, 2013

 The Tree House

Shelley Ayres

In need of adventure I climb to my tree house.

Eyes closed the swaying tree house becomes a pirate’s ship.

I ride the rise and fall of waves at sea.

The creaking ship’s deck and the dancing branches are not branches at all.

They are drunken sailors singing “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Rum.”

A blue jay squeals, “Ahoy Matey” as it lands on the ship’s rail.

“Arrgh!  Are there really blue parrots?” I wonder.

The blue parrot sounds his warning as he takes to the wind.

“Beware, the new cap’n of the sea,” and I laugh my most sinister laugh.

 September 8, 2013