There is a tree that sits in my front yard, just outside my bedroom window.
Its branches extend upward, above the roof, and toward the season-changing colors of the sky.
Nature's wildlife frolics and thrives among its mighty limbs.
Every morning, I awaken to this tree.
Standing tall, and full of life, it offers me peace, and comfort, and joy.
This year, it did not bloom.
With late snow in April, I thought, maybe it is not ready.
Maybe it just needs more time.
The month of May came and went.
And, now we are well into June.
Still, no bloom.
Like me, the birds and the squirrels have been patiently waiting and hoping.
Like faithful companions, they continue to visit their dear old friend, singing life into its branches,
and continuing to frolic among its mighty, yet weakening, limbs.
Still, no bloom.
Its branches, now reaching toward a summer sky, still carry the brittle cold of winter.
Yet, every day, I look out at the tree, and hold out hope.
"Come on, tree," I say. "Show me a sign."
But, the tree is silent.
My seventeen-year-old says to me, "Mom, I think the tree is dead."
"I know," I say. "And, it makes me sad."
"It's JUST a tree," he says.
Just a tree, I say to myself.
Just a tree . . .
full of hope,
full of beauty,
full of joy,
full of LOVE.
Just a tree.
Its branches extend upward, above the roof, and toward the season-changing colors of the sky.
Nature's wildlife frolics and thrives among its mighty limbs.
Every morning, I awaken to this tree.
Standing tall, and full of life, it offers me peace, and comfort, and joy.
This year, it did not bloom.
With late snow in April, I thought, maybe it is not ready.
Maybe it just needs more time.
The month of May came and went.
And, now we are well into June.
Still, no bloom.
Like me, the birds and the squirrels have been patiently waiting and hoping.
Like faithful companions, they continue to visit their dear old friend, singing life into its branches,
and continuing to frolic among its mighty, yet weakening, limbs.
Still, no bloom.
Its branches, now reaching toward a summer sky, still carry the brittle cold of winter.
Yet, every day, I look out at the tree, and hold out hope.
"Come on, tree," I say. "Show me a sign."
But, the tree is silent.
My seventeen-year-old says to me, "Mom, I think the tree is dead."
"I know," I say. "And, it makes me sad."
"It's JUST a tree," he says.
Just a tree, I say to myself.
Just a tree . . .
full of hope,
full of beauty,
full of joy,
full of LOVE.
Just a tree.