The Tree Under The Pink Sky

The roots of the tree go deep.

Burrowing themselves into the richest layers of soil,

Like shallow breathing snakes,

They inhale the earth’s goodness.

Up and down they go,

Maneuvering across the earth,

Darting under and over the surface,

Like an undisciplined patchwork,

Of knitted ribs.

One Spring evening,

I found myself far from home,

Having taken off to escape the hurt,

And the pain of pride,

That came with sharing my heart,

And the name of the one who held it.

For she was a girl,

And I was a girl,

And so, forevermore,

I would have to guard myself,

And my purest affections.

Upon this eve,

I came across this tree,

With a trunk wide enough,

That two men could wrap their arms around it,

And not be able to touch each other.

The trunk was sturdy with youth,

But sagging with old.

The tree leaned to the East,

Its branches, erratic and twisted in all directions,

Brushed the ground on the side of the sun.

I approached the tree in wonder,

Playing hopscotch over the scaffolded dirt,

Lithe steps this way and that,

To get closer to its solid bole.

I expected it’s skin to be made of deep ridges,

And rough, peeling bark,

But as I caressed the face in front of me,

I was surprised to find –

The tree was smooth to the touch.

I crouched into the hollow of the tree,

Pulling my sleeves over my hands,

And my hands over my eyes.

The tears would not stop coming,

Something I was used to.

But the wind that whipped around the tree,

Blew softly against my face,

Feeling like the kindest of kisses,

Upon my damp cheeks.

The tree's thick legs,

Sprawling out on either side of me,

Cradled my shaking body,

Until my breathing slowed,

And my mind cleared.

I loosened my grip on my arms,

Which were wrapped tightly around myself,

And sunk into the sturdy embrace,

Of my new friend, anchored to the earth.

I visit the tree often,

Each time returning with fervour,

The hug that once comforted me,

Thinking –

I could never know when the tree needed it most.

Standalone this tree does.

In the middle of an open field,

It is long forgotten by everyone but passer-by’s.

The shaggy grass it was born into,

Burns and browns under the Summer sun.

The grass dries and dies,

But not the tree.

The tree prevails.

Along the spiral branches of the tree,

There are wisps of leaves,

That bud and blow frantically in the wind.

Barely green in colour,

They turn fuchsia in October.

Stubborn little things they are, though –

Rare is the leaf that falls in Autumn.

One Winter I visited the tree,

And took with me some company,

A girl with olive skin,

And a heart of sweet, golden honey.

Holding her hand,

I led her through the maze of frozen roots,

The footwork committed to my memory,

Like a studied ballroom dance.

We pressed our hands against the tree,

And in that moment,

Our gloved fingers intertwined,

I believed the warmth of our touch,

Would linger there forever.

As we laid against the silent trunk,

The sun began to set,

And we, embraced in one another,

Witnessed with astounding pleasure,

The tree under the pink sky.

As the last sunbeams fell upon us,

A thousand little sparkles glistened,

Lighting up the icicles that draped the tree,

Brighter than any Christmas spectacle,

That I had ever seen.

The sun sank below the white hills,

Stretching out in the horizon.

It was as if the sun was clawing the sky,

Not wanting to go under –

The sun left streaks of purple blush as it descended,

Weeping it’s goodbyes,

And promising a spectacular return for tomorrow.

As cold as it was,

We did not want to leave.

There was nowhere else we’d rather be,

Than at the tree under the pink sky.