staghorn sumac

A broken mirror rests on the porch, waiting to be dealt with.

Used to catch one last glimpse of a face not fond of the sight.

But this morning, my eyes took notice of the sumac tree.

With it's decaying blossoms, ever-giving to the many birds and bees.

Offspring littered by her feet:

outstretched against the fence to reach the sun beyond the balcony.

Ah, yes, the twigs that grew to be branches

that extend from flowers from seasons before.

I start to wonder if my one year was fifteen to hers,

or if she aged with each spring that passed.

If she could reminisce, I wonder what she'd remember first.

Perhaps the squirrels running past her daily—

the sound of wind through the trees,

or how the rain felt on her leaves.

Maybe she'd recall a girl coming and going frantically.

-

When my home was up for sale I mourned the tree friends that kept her company.

I’d watered them all summer thinking each month may be their last.

I especially mourned the huge cedar that shrouded me.

A beauty I trimmed last winter to make a wreath.

Saddened as I see the calloused end that would’ve grown to touch sumacs leaves.

I even felt for the brambles—summers of free blackberry jam no more.

Roots two inches thick sprout from the mother;

some vines climbing meters high intertwining with the cedar.

Their neglect let them thrive wild.

I hacked them down in their mightiest days, to free space for the trees to breathe.

-

Fall came around and the evergreen stood taller.

The staghorn brushed against my staircase.

Her children grew past the porch, peaking into the neighbors yard.

For the first time in three years I could see her clearer than before.

The vibrant autumn leaves against her red flowers, her fuzzy branch akin to velvet on an antler—

even the grey skies had a different hue as the seasons backdrop grew colder.

Days were long and dark.

Though I could not see her when I left for work and returned in the same light,

I knew she was there: steadfast and awaiting spring to arrive.

-

As blossoms emerged and the sun kissed us again and a sweet scent filling the air, the new landlords kept the house and saved the trees.

What a glorious day feeling the weight leave,

my shoulders free from the possibility of their grim reality.

I tidied my porch, sweeping up nut husks from the squirrels.

The birds were singing along with the soughing.

The sun dancing with the swaying melodies.

In this peace something glimmered by a sack of soil:

a broken piece of my full length mirror I'd ignored.

When I picked it up, the daylight made my skin look rendered.

I noticed the laugh lines marking the years that past.

Taken aback, I reminisced on my growth in this home.

That I now hold myself with care and kiss the skin of every scratch and caress each aching bone with a tenderness unbeknownst to the old me.

That I am aging and ever-giving like that beautiful sumac tree.