It was old when I was young, for centuries it had sat. With it's arms and legs all crossed, it was romantic, majestic; its belly round and fat. It had seen time come and go, since from a seedling it had sprung. Many Winters hard and cold. Indian Springs; Southern Summers, the sweet smell of the Fall; heavy rains that came and went. It endured them all.
When the first ships came to these shores, the tree was already grown. The native people upon this land had tenderly cared for it since time in memoriam. For a hundred generations, since the first man this continent crossed. They were people of a different kind; respectful of what they found and lost. But then their came another kind of man. Men who would cut it down.
Battles were fought, blood was spilled; but the roots stayed in the ground. The massive tree of untold age refused to bend or bow. It remained strong through wars and strife, the blood spilled at the base. Yet even then it refused to die, it developed a new kind of face.
Its branches and leaves reached higher still, heaven trying to touch. Its face became hard and tough, its bark and body rough. Time had changed the state of grace, that all men had to face. The tree was used in efforts grim, men of color to erase. The tree just hung its head in shame, but still it would not give. It would not give, it would not die, for freedom it would survive. To proclaim the indomitable spirit, of how people should live and thrive.
Through ocean storms, wind and hail; Sun that turned its leaves brown. Teaguns tree continued; growing a greener, lofty crown. My Papa built a home there when Grandma he did wed. Then when he was a grand old man, in death he watched it shed.
The tree still stood in regal splendor, watching children play. Blue Jays in its lofty boughs, chasing Cardinals away. Inside its girth honey bees worked, to make the tree grow sweet, making cheeks flush with joy, for those brave enough to eat.
My children's children have touched the tree, they love to hear the tale, of this wonderful creation, that still stands the test of time. Someday they will watch me grow old and fade as the tree begins to reach its prime.
When the first ships came to these shores, the tree was already grown. The native people upon this land had tenderly cared for it since time in memoriam. For a hundred generations, since the first man this continent crossed. They were people of a different kind; respectful of what they found and lost. But then their came another kind of man. Men who would cut it down.
Battles were fought, blood was spilled; but the roots stayed in the ground. The massive tree of untold age refused to bend or bow. It remained strong through wars and strife, the blood spilled at the base. Yet even then it refused to die, it developed a new kind of face.
Its branches and leaves reached higher still, heaven trying to touch. Its face became hard and tough, its bark and body rough. Time had changed the state of grace, that all men had to face. The tree was used in efforts grim, men of color to erase. The tree just hung its head in shame, but still it would not give. It would not give, it would not die, for freedom it would survive. To proclaim the indomitable spirit, of how people should live and thrive.
Through ocean storms, wind and hail; Sun that turned its leaves brown. Teaguns tree continued; growing a greener, lofty crown. My Papa built a home there when Grandma he did wed. Then when he was a grand old man, in death he watched it shed.
The tree still stood in regal splendor, watching children play. Blue Jays in its lofty boughs, chasing Cardinals away. Inside its girth honey bees worked, to make the tree grow sweet, making cheeks flush with joy, for those brave enough to eat.
My children's children have touched the tree, they love to hear the tale, of this wonderful creation, that still stands the test of time. Someday they will watch me grow old and fade as the tree begins to reach its prime.
This is lovely, Russ. I'm amazed at your ability to weave a magnificent story from the picture of that tree.... very nicely done.
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ReplyDeleteBeautiful......you should call this book.....'If a tree could speak'.....what would it say about mankind, and all the years it has spent in this world. It would be amazing to hear one talk......don't you think?
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