My Sweet Tree
The biggest of the two chinquapin oaks is still largely a tree of bare branches. It’s odd because all of its brethren in the yard, lacy and burr, are on full display. There appears to be a large quantity of buds, however, and when I peer closely at them, I see hints of green, but nothing has burst forth. Yet. And I check every morning. Still, there is promise and my hope springs eternal.
It is disconcerting to see it bare because for years it was the most luscious and vibrant of the many trees we planted shortly after we moved in. It is tall and it’s leaves were plentiful. To see it die, inexplicably, would be heartbreaking. But last summer was a hot one and we lost other trees, a little Lacy in the back and a buckthorn. The heat overwhelmed them, cooking their bare trunks. So, a tree’s passing is in the realm of possibilities.
But, I’m banking on the buds in the same way a lover might bank on little hints of affection indicating something better is to come. A kiss perhaps, or an embrace. In this case I want leaves and the shade they throw, and if I’ve been inattentive then that can change, and I will prep the ground at the young tree’s feet and be a more attentive friend. Because perhaps I’ve been too presumptive of its beauty, taking more than I’m giving. Forgetting than everything and everyone needs to be nourished.