Sanctuary

I love this patch of holly,

Holy in its survival -

set apart for me.

This grove of green

growing verdantly through the years.

Bespeckled with berries, red

marking my lifetime

as sure as the blood that courses to my heart.

The girl I was

I become again.

Exploring these wonderful, wild holly woods.

A bonus to a new marriage

of a young man to that girl who came before this woman.

This woman who sits on a dry slab of bark

protecting her derrier from the

damp trunk of a dead deciduous tree

cut several years back

now lying here beside the holly, uncut, still standing.

Which of these are those first three?

Which, in this grove

that now numbers over a hundred;

which were the three?

Growing as high as my knee

among the pines and poplars?

The three I discovered and saved.

Set apart,

Allowed to grow

by a man who chose not to be practical

that once.

Making me love him even more.

Perfect beauty is not what drew me to sit here

this day in late December

to sit upon the log

damp in its rot.

To sit among the holly.

There is not a perfect tree among them

growing as they have

untrimmed, too crowded,

some twisted as pines have fallen around them.

But still, perfect they are.

Each misshapen one

reaching out to touch                                                  

the prickly leaves of the ill-formed tree beside it.           



They won't last forever
Their lives are likely tied to mine.

Useless,

not timber,

just green;

speaking to no one but me.

Telling me that I was once a girl.

who saved three bushy prickly trees.

That have returned the favor

many times.