Bristlecone
Pine
Jan
13 2020
Just
imagine living
as
long as these ancient trees.
To
witness history unfold.
To
accumulate the wisdom
of
sages and elders.
Like
the old woman
in
the chair by the window
lit
by low winter sun.
If
only she could speak
what
stories she'd tell.
And
they do look old,
wizened,
craggy, convoluted.
A
passer-by would think them dead,
some
petrified forest
that
had somehow persisted
in
this cold alpine refuge
on
a remote mountain slope.
Barely
growing.
As
if life were zero-sum;
the
heart of a mouse
flitting
quickly, but dying young,
and
the elephant
long-lived,
but slow.
As
if the heart can contract
only
so many times
before
it gives-out.
So
if this tree was sentient
its
four thousand years
would
feel like a man at mid-life.
As
if a mere half-century had passed,
while
all our dynasties and genocides
flashed-by
far away,
standing
oblivious
rooted
in place.
Am
I wrong to imagine
that
wisdom accrues over time?
Because
according to our fleeting lives, they are old
yet
their clocks run slow.
The
gods may claim eternity,
but
ancient trees
are
just as mortal as we are.
And
neither are they as pretty
as
the familiar trees
we
have bred and pruned and propagated.
But
to the discerning eye, they're beautiful;
the
way great age
imparts
dignity and grace,
hard
experience
leaves
its mark.
Like
her thin delicate skin
almost
translucent.
Her
fine-boned face
and
bird-like hands.
The
kind eyes
that
are nearly blind
but
seem, somehow, all-seeing.
The
tree, dense as ironwood.
And
she, perched on that chair beside the window
like
some ethereal other
about
to depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment