Silver Birch

I sit beneath her, with my back pressed firm
against her corrugated bark. I close
my eyes. Breathe deeply. Let her calm determined
presence hold me still. A light gust blows
across her boughs, releasing green-gold leaves
to seek their freedom in the fickle zephyr
and as they fall I wonder if she grieves,
knowing she could not hold them forever?
Her life, so deeply rooted in this place,
Whispers of worlds I cannot comprehend
and, as I step away from her embrace,
I bid farewell to Other. Stranger. Friend.
This world is all I’ve known, is all I know.
Yet, for all that, it is not All, I know.

Rich Clarkson, November 2021