Swirls

It appears in constant motion swirls like a river running high though it stands still as a carving, the trunk of the long-dead tree, sans bark, its pale, wrinkled flesh laid bare, and with the weathered face of an elder.

The twisted, knotted tree was full of conversation as I walked past near Main Street a couple of years ago, a Norway maple planted along the street a half century ago, standing years in this spot after its growing years were finished, leafless, and losing itself a piece at a time. In the season of gaudy color on the part of trees, this tree spoke loudly in its differences and of its differences, sprouting dead from the still-green grass between the sidewalk and the street.

Now it’s gone, replaced with a new sapling, its character not yet developed by storms and neglect. But time will tell.

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