I once was Hanging Garden Tree,
various life forms hanging off of me,
trunk strong and sturdy,
able to bear it all :
the gains, the losses,
the support of others
that bowed my branches low.
Those years, the forest was my home.
Grandmother Cedar was kin,
and Sky Woman blessed my weary head
with stars. We shared
tenancy of earth and sky,
communion, the cycle of life
so strong and sure,
so joyous, I.
I have become a Weeping Willow
as I aged: tree of my childhood,
under which I spent so many bemused hours.
Willow, the scent of summer,
along with bullrushes and lakeshore breezes,
its curving branches sheltering and protective,
I in the hammock underneath,
my ship of dreams just starting out,
alive with hope, and shining.
And now it is the tree of my old age,
as Memory wanders through my mind and heart,
tears for the many losses and their pain,
tears for the golden times
that will not come again,
tears for the long farewell of every dog and tree,
tears for this wonderful life,
slowly pulling away from the shore