18 March 1987

Her slender trunk, whatever name She has, stands,
erect— a spindly thing— tiny branches—Her apex
— gold-tinted in late afternoon.

Behind Her— a wall of ivy, in multitudes of green—
evergreen leaning gracefully towards one side,
Her light-shredded needles so gently swaying

In the sun, providing a place for migrating songbirds.
Next to redwoods, shooting up towards cirrus clouds
swirling in the sky, heavenly laden branches

Of Her white Camellia bush— blossoms in every stage
of bloom— decay moving in the inevitable breeze—
shades ranging from immaculate white

To a golden brown. Lovely to see Her tree— so many
parts of life represented— tightly knotted bird— all
green— unknowing. Her evanescent pearly white

Young blossom in all tenderness, ever-so slightly
fading Camellia, Her petals drooping— golden
at the edge— Her stems or pistils completely—

Still moist— deep brown ones drying now daily
in the sun until they drop. Roses newly pruned—
leafing before the time of budding.

Eyes alight on the tulip vines towards the spiraling
needle of Her pine tree climbing away from earth.
Yet, that is not where the Camellia falls,

Nor, for that matter, where the pine cone ends up.
The dog sleeps on the grassy mound of earth,
And there will sleep all who age and wither.

What is that longing, then, for the eternal, for that
which does not fade? Spirits of the oak ancient—
light— filtering through branches— beauty, comfort

Available — we have loved well. The sadness of angels
is not having loved enough in another life. “Learn to love
death even— All of earth is made to be

Loved like a woman.” Himalaya Dahlia says,
“Love ourselves—all others peacefully.
There is nothing to fear.”