As I watch the tree from my window

 

As I watch the tree from my window

As I watch the tree from my window,

she dances in the wind —

arms swaying to a music only she can hear,

a composer conducting her own orchestra.

Happiness moves through her branches:

the pines, the fir, the Christmas tree shape

that always feels a little like fantasy,

a little like Disney’s Fantasia —

freedom, uplift, a natural blow dry of fresh air.

She shakes off the old:

the tired needles, the brittle leaves,

the quiet decay that becomes food

for whatever small creature needs it next.

A decluttering.

A letting go.

A renewal.

Wind moves beneath her branches

like a breath of fresh air,

carrying away what’s finished,

making space for what’s coming.

Decay becomes mycelium,

mycelium becomes life,

and she stands there —

dancing, shedding, reusing,

teaching me how to begin again.