The Roof of the World

Aug 16 2011


I live in the heart of a forest.

I am enclosed by trees.

By shades of green

that have never been named.

And could never be,

constantly changing

with the time of day

the height of sky

the angle of sun, in season.

The earth is flat

but my geometry is vertical,

holding up the roof of the world

keeping me small.

I am not sentimental enough

to hug them.

Their strength, and age, and stillness

are sufficient comfort

without such self-indulgence,

an indignity

unworthy of trees.

We co-exist

on property deeded to me,

but they are not mine.

At most, I’m a custodian,

shepherding them through

my brief tenure here.

Or does it work the other way around,

that I lean on them

for peace, protection, sustenance?

Lightning struck the white pine

next to the house.

It toppled slowly,

going as gracefully as it stood

for more than a hundred years,

as generations of men

came, and went.

It felt like an avalanche

when it landed,

in a shower of needles, shattered branches

a jagged smoking stump.

I mourn this pine, and miss it.

But death is different

in a tree.

The roots are still alive,

seeking sunlight

pushing up shoots.

And the fallen trunk

will return to the soil,

still part

of the living forest.

And I am grateful

it leaned away,

sparing me and my house.

Where the power went out

just as it was struck,

the hands of the clock

stuck

on the exact second.

Perhaps a sign of respect
a memento mori;

like half-mast-flags, a black crepe sash

in a funeral procession.

But this tree is its own epitaph

a perfect marker.

So I look forward to the change of season.

When the first light snow

will make a festive cover,

a soft white cloak

glittering in winter sun.

And then into spring,

when the indolent heat

of decomposition
will lift its shroud of snow,

and mark a new beginning

of life.