Therapy Tree

I started writing this in the summer when I had covid. After a few days barely able to even stand up I managed to drag myself outside and I sat under the Apple tree for a while until it started raining. I wrote some semi-incoherent fragments of poetry that day which I’ve worked into this sonnet. The fragility of the rhyming reflects those origins.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I have, it seems, my own therapy tree –
an apple tree to be precise – beneath
whose tangled, lichened, arms I gently draw
infected breaths. I watch as her curled leaves
jostle for position (like the crowds
I used to hate and miss with all my heart),
attentive to her wild community
of which, for now, I’m glad to be a part.
The rain starts falling like it only can
in August, somehow summoned as a blessing.
Part of me wants to stay and soak it in
but, feeling blessed enough, I end the session.
Her branches bear the weight of all my grief
and I, a little lighter, take my leave.

Rich Clarkson, August 2021