As I pause to make the turn
on the labyrinth, I look up
at the grand oak that watches
over this space with its brethren,

spellbound, as I often am,
by the graceful curves of its limbs,
by its rooted dancer’s body.

I want to call it her,
but, like all divine beings,
it exists without gender or specifics,
other than the roughness of old bark,
a kind of skin like that
aging on my own frame,

the particular formation of leaves
so high that I cannot make them out
individually, but shelter gratefully
under their embracing shade.

The oak, I see, has retained some
dying parts, brittle leaves attached
to weak limbs still hanging on,
not seeming to bother the rest
of the healthy tree.

If we are lucky, we, too,
ebb bit by bit over a long period,
might not notice the fading
or prefer to ignore it.

But, even impaired, we manage
to remain as upright as possible,
reaching for sky, faces toward light,
healing old wounds even as parts
of us ache and decline. And, when
it is time to drop our leaves, we
try to do so with some grace,
not fussing as they fall, hoping
others might sprout anew.

And, if they don’t,
we spread our limbs wide
anyway, offer sanctuary,
radiate love.

•••

(for Christie Braziel, with gratitude)