Deep
in the forest, light struggled through dense, dancing tree tops,
dotting
the carpet below. A path of reddish-brown clay twisted through the
woodland,
splitting it in half. Dark green nettles lined both sides,
surrounded
by soft, furry mosses.
Tiny
yellow wildflowers sporadically interrupted the sea of green.
Rugged
rocks littered the way,
daring
me to walk along without looking down at my feet.
Just
as the humid air and long journey took their toll,
a
tree beckoned to me from around the bend.
This
was the guardian of the pathway,
a
great beech tree, older than civilization.
Its
smooth gray skin wrapped
around
a massive trunk,
at
least twice as wide as any in the forest.
Muscular
roots relentlessly gripped the earth, resisting the forces of nature.
This
was a tree with a story to tell; a tree in great anguish.
Generations
of initials scarred the papery bark - records of fleeting
love
and manhood on display for eternity. The ultimate sentence for
a
living billboard who’s only sin was poor location.
Damned
by man and nature both, it cries tears of milky sap,
reminiscing
about younger, kinder days.
Stripped
of its crown and wearing a cloak of disgrace, it survives,
standing
watch and telling its tale to all who choose to listen.
As
the mosquitos discovered my inactivity,
I
pushed on, shaking my head.
[from "Portrait Stories" by Robert Miller]