I wrote this poem on a personal retreat in Fox Chase, Pennsylvania in the fall of 2019.
Old trees are the wisest.
I can tell by how wide their trunks are.
They’ve been here longer than I have.
And they’ll be here longer than I will.
Can I contemplate that without swallowing the bitter pill?
They grow toward their creator.
They reach out toward her.
Can I follow their will,
And be just as still?
When I’m old I will be like them,
Grounded and planted with branches stretched out.
As for today, I will be as still,
Learning from them, doing what I am given
At peace with the One who made those trees
Because she who made those them also made me
I’ll stop checking my roots to see if I’ve grown
That’s not what the trees do
They exist and are, planted firmly in earth
And they are thus fully known
From the moment of their birth
I am like the tree now
Created by the same One
Following my creator, I will be known as her son