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Wednesday, January 6, 2010

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.




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