THE BIRCH TREE
© Vickey Stamps 9-20-12
A burgundy-reddish Paint, lay heavy and new, on the old building
that sat nearby. The building was partly under and beneath an
old birch tree. A thick coating of white, high-lighted the building
on its entrance and on its trellis and four-squared window.
An empty pot waited for the planting of itself, hoping for
flowers with very bright colors to one day burst forth and
lighten this place up even half, as nicely, as did the old tree.
The table upon which it sat, seemed to lean slightly against
the ancient tree, as if weary. Perhaps it was.
Beside the tree, sturdy, curving legs, held up planks of wood
for the humans to sit on and rest under its shade... A strong
wooden surface, lay between the two benches. It had heard
itself being called a picnic table, but thought of itself as being
more a place of comfort. Right now, it was missing the happy
sounds of the children and thinking that anytime now, they
would perhaps leave the big yellow school bus that brought
them home each day. He would wait all day to see the
youngsters race down the road toward home. Maybe they’d
stop and visit him for a bit.
The old tree preened itself, thinking how lovely its red and
yellow leaves looked spread all around him on the ground.
Any day now, the children would, no doubt, gather them up,
into a tall pile and throw themselves into its middle. The old
tree could almost hear their laughter. Its roots sometimes
did a happy dance of joy, when that happened.
Winter would be arriving before much longer. The bite of its
breath had already made itself felt a few times. There had
been a long drought, but that had passed and fall had come.
Wood was already stacked in long tidy rows, just waiting to
warm the home of the children.
Soon, most, if not all, of its leaves would be gone and it would
shiver in its nakedness, as the ground grew cold. It would
long for spring when it would again be clothed in beauty.
For now it would count the blessings of all it was and all
that lay around it.
Later, the old tree would smell the fireplace, as it warmed
the home and blew its smoke up through the chimney.
Sometimes the smoke would stop to visit with the old tree
for just a moment, before merging with the winter skies.
The woods ashes would be spread in part, to enrich the soil
and one day a garden would present itself for those in the
home to enjoy.
For now it would be content. Even though it was only a tre,e
that sheltered the building, the table with the planter, the
place of comfort and the ground beneath it all, it had always
known it to be, a true thing…
LIFE WAS GOOD