May 6, 2019

the happening place to be

I've returned, canopy of elm branches.  I walk beneath you, gladly.

I've returned after ignoring you all winter, never drawn by bleakness, barrenness, absence.  I missed the icy wind tunnel and your crows, but I prefer this, today.  The spring birds are a cacophony.

My knees are older now.  They notice the difference between the cambers of the curb and the pavement.

Some of your branches bend so low that I feel embraced.  I have a photograph of a hug with a hand clasped around the side of my shoulder, and today I feel the way that photograph makes me feel when I see the I-belong-I-am-loved and take it in.

The smell of honeysuckle is strong, but I cannot see the vines.

Walking is an impatient thing, until I reach the line of your shade.  I was told I walk like a soldier, long stride, too fast.

Walking is a tense thing.  Out of habit, I clench my thumb into my right hand, not to slug someone in self-defense, but to hide, to bear the pressure of being see-able.  I am exposed.  I always walk with my thumb tucked in.

In the shady honeysuckle hug, I consciously relax my hand and open it.  I straighten my middle-aged back to stand taller and I slow my pace.

I am not running away.  I walk beneath you, slowly.


  1. Lille, This is beautiful. Sometimes old "friends" can't wag a tail or offer conversation, but they can still offer a welcome hug. Mona

  2. Trees make everything better.
    Lille's writing makes everything better.