Storm
Fallen Cedar
It was the
storm
that took
her
at the
last;
while we
nestled
deeper in
our beds,
unsleeping,
but
grateful all the same
for the
simple joy
of shelter.
In the
smallest hours
Heaven
opened
overhead
and poured
upon us
an
onslaught of
wild wind,
with rain so
cold
it was
almost snow
in its
sharpness.
Just before
the dawn
it peaked
in power,
finally
enough,
as it
whipped
like a
scourge
against her
long aged, grey,
elephantine
skin
and, though
her sisters
held their
vigil nearby,
she gently
gave way,
and fell,
prostrate
upon the earth
from which
she came,
embraced by
the sacred soil
of our
little
graveyard.
Was she
tired
of her long
watch upon the hill?
Holding her
gaze
over the
forest, the family
and now the
friars,
for three hundred
of our
human years
(Whatever
kind of reckoning
Trees make
of time
I do not
know,
and they do
not tell
in our
tongue at least.)
So much had
passed
beneath her
branches
famines,
feasts, families
and finally,
friars, all played
their part
measuring
her time,
each in
their own way.
That
morning,
emerging
into light,
we heard
the news
in shock;
the ripple
of her passing
echoing
in awe and
prayer both,
a sadness
felt in brother, bird, and beast
for those
still enough to hear.
Today,
I made my
pilgrimage
to pay my
respects
as she lies
in state,
our sacred sister,
eldress of
this land.
Finding her
broken body
dissolving
already,
her ancient
green soul
flown.
Her long hidden
heartwood
now exposed,
still raw
and soft yet,
open to the
breeze,
that
touched her broken branches
with the
sacred sprinkling
of the
rain.
So often
before
I had
blessed her,
and given her
my brother’s bow
in passing by,
and so been
blessed in turn
by her simple
stately
being.
My hands,
resting upon her trunk,
felt the
difference
today.
No pulse,
no inner
warmth,
no great
deep
breathing
in her
root,
trunk,
branch,
bark.
It brought
sadness too,
but also
the joy of knowing
that in
every death
something
withdraws,
is freed,
leaves.
For all
that live
sing their
own soul song
arising
from Divine love,
and in
someway,
at the end
will
return
their essence
as gift
borrowed for a while,
until the
new creation
allows
resurrection seed
to finally
fully bloom
in all
beings.
I was not
the first
to grieve
her though,
For all
around the tracks
and trails
of those she sheltered showed;
the fleet
of foot, feathered, furred
they too
had felt her passing,
and it
seemed had held their funeral rites
ever before
us.
And then,
I looked up
from my troubled thoughts
and found
my gaze held
by a Stag
who watched,
wary and
wonderful and wild,
from the
forest’s edge.
Both of us,
in our own way,
guardians of
this land.
Both of us
mourning
the passing
of our eldress,
each in our
own way.
Both of us
simply there
in the
brotherhood of all being.
And I think,
in that moment
we were
blessed,
and blessed
each other too,
in our
common grief and trust
that all
that live upon this earth will die,
and all
that dies will live again in Love.
Then,
bowing gently, we withdrew
to forest
and to friary each,
aware of
other
and of something
beyond
other,
I, for my part, call grace,
(Whatever
kind of reckoning
Deer make
of grace
I do not
know,
and they do
not tell
in our
tongue at least.),
grace that
had led us both
to be there
at that
time, together,
in mourning,
for our
storm fallen sister,
the great and
ancient being
we simply call
Tree.
