It's Still Life

Ars Poetica: The Yew

This is a tree.
Something about it.
It’s          interesting.
But it’s not about the tree.
So.         What’s it about?
Childhood.
It holds my childhood.
That summer. The forest
behind the house. It’s beyond
the maple — Dad nailed
a birdhouse on it . Like Jesus. Crucified.
It’s beyond the ripe huckleberries
that I stopped to eat before
chasing on after something.
Something else. I can’t recall what
     but I was always chasing after something.
Always running. Ducking 
under a long sweep of
hanging limbs that nearly
touched the ground. Like arms
over soil. Soft. Dry. Scented, and hot
as my summer days, and overhead
pinecones ripening in June
sun. The mute shade. The coolness.
Undercover from heat, a tent of
limbs as if a mother’s arms.
Feeling safe. Secure.
Within a tree.
This tree is a poem.

This is a response to Miz Quickly’s prompt Advice To a Young Poet,  (or novelist, essayist, blogger—artist) Ars Poetica prompt. However …. This sucker wrote itself in a different direction. Typical.  And I can’t be ars’ed to poetica again. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter   ©Misky 2021