Sorrow crossed my path today. After a moment's hesitation, I greeted it as I do most old friends, with a gentle welcome and an offer to sit together for a while. I have never found a way to avoid it, anyway. No, holding compassion for sorrow seems to be the ticket, methinks. Besides, I cannot imagine carrying all that it carries without some kindness and a cup of tea.
During our time together, something reminded me of the way a beech tree holds its leaves through the winter. That reminded me of this tree I used to know and a poem I wrote in 2019.
I am weary from our visit, but content. And so I will spend the rest of this evening with ghosts, candles, magic, and memories.
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Golden-brown beech leaves
Shiver and shimmer on their branches.
Do not make the mistake of believing
that it is fear that causes them to tremble.
They are simply wise enough to turn
with the cold wind as it blows through.
Not wasting energy fighting the current,
but moving with the strength of a swordmaster or a dancer,
waiting for just the right moment.
Waiting for peace to return.
One breaks from the branch and
float-dances in the air right up to my window.
Tap. Skitter. Tap tap tap as it twists and spins along the glass
then drifts softly to rest on the frosty earth.
A ghostly reminder of how to let go,
Of how to say hello,
Of how to say I will always be here
Even though my form will change.
s. barker
January 2019
