I am at rest.
The tree I have talked about
for days has been planted.
I am relieved,
like a father,
to have something to hug.
The sky is crocheted with green.
There is a place
to play under again.
What has been taken by storm
is brought back.
Trees are sacred journals.
They are the scripture
of the past.
In the sundial of their hearts
we see the breadth
of our passage through time.
Remembering shadows and shade,
mornings and evenings
of glory and regret.
The world as it returns to life
enlarged and beautiful.
The beautiful is eternal
and evergreen.
Like sunshine gilding the surfaces
of walls and ceilings.
I feel the delight
of a guardian
for the wonderful.
This season is a harbinger
of seasons coming,
life resolved.
An answer to why
the world is here.