poem: the fall

The Fall

It was raining when
You were born in the spring
Time I took to create you with care.
A green bud on my Maple branch,
I saw you and called you good.
I knew what you would become:
A beautiful part of me, details
Touched by divine hands.

The summer sun saturated
Deep into your pores,
Growing you into your three-pointed
Frame providing shelter and shade.
In evening’s gentle breeze
My bough swayed and
You danced with rustled laughter—
A joyful assembly
Held fast by the grasp of my security.

Long days became shorter, colder
And security became too familiar;
You wondered what it would be like to fly.

The captivating ground untouchable
Whispered to you, mocking your position.
Senescence set in to tempt and entice you.
My comforting hands now constricting
You from who you wanted to be.
Curiosity, doubt and impatience
Filled you like an acid,
Changing your colors.

You forgot me when you pulled
Apart from my union. Your rebellion
Thought only of soaring and sovereignty
And wanting to fly,
But really you were falling.

You touched the winter ground—it was firm and cold,
Different from your former suspension,
And you hardened in its grip.

Your experience was new
But fatal. Your source of life gone
Your fragile frame brittle; You break
You are dead. Separated from me.
And now my bare branches mourn
This loss of communion.

~rjr 10/02, 4/04