For Ammachy

 

Three weeks ago, 
a great oak was felled; 
and those of us who had rested 
comfortably in its shade 
all these years, 
considered, for the first time, 
the crushing emptiness; 
the gaping vacuum 
left behind, 
that memories 
could never quite fill. 

We blinked away tears, 
and dealt with it as best we could- 
for Life Goes On. 

And yet, 
perhaps we did not see, 
that no tree ever truly dies, 
its leaves 
are never really bereaved. 
For even out of the 
scorched earth, new life 
is always birthed- and the oak, 
it still lives 
and grows in us, 
its seeds sown in us,
without our knowledge; 
its roots nourish and 
renew us, branches 
still shelter us. 

And on every new leaf,
there is a trace 
of the very same pattern 
that ran all the way up 
from the soles of weathered feet, 
to the softest, kindest face.