Tuesday, April 8, 2025, 31.5*
The aroma of chocolate raspberry coffee greets a gray dawn showing off trees without leaves inviting me into a clear view of the placid pond, of trees the beaver cut piled to make a lodge. Nothing moves. Nothing sings. Nothing hums. No wind. No birds. No bees. Gray, brown, evergreen. My three, now asleep, looked for something new from their fenced-in-land as if seeing it for the first time. They called attention to a tree, its blanket of bark long ago slipped away without notice, half the roots displayed as it laid down, dirt no longer holding them.
Holding onto their bark. Stripped bare. Enduring holes that gave access to their heart, to things living in them that others wanted to survive-- wounded trees stand where they are allowed, where death and dying are not hidden. Wounded trees stand sentinel, a tribute to living.
My son, do not let wisdom and understanding
out of your sight,
preserve sound judgment and discretion;
Proverbs 3:21
Art: LJ Austin
