This Tree, a prose poem

Reflections on New Year of the Trees

Living in a treehouse, one notices the tree. When the luster of the leaves fades, at first I wonder why. When they begin to yellow and drop away, I notice there are more birds in residence than I ever suspected and they seem to have more to eat nowadays as they peck at the bare bark. The sweetness of the songbirds nearly overshadows the frank undressing of the tree’s greenery. In short time, my tree stands naked, bare. The songbirds flee. Occasional crows gather to stare in my window. I no sooner have begun to mourn, than small fresh buds appear at the ends of branches. I smile at the tree. It flourishes in steady flowering and the birds return. Everything is impermanent.