The tree is a tree and it has a soul just as the body does. —Rabbi Amnon The tree is a tree and it has a soul just as the body does. I touch its bark the way I used to touch your hips, torso. I gather scattered leaves and press them in your favorite book because they are of the tree the way your hair was of you, the way your fingernails were of you, even after they’d been cut off and discarded. I water the tree and hope the water seeks roots which in turn open to accept water, the way we spent a lifetime learning to accept matters of faith. I imagine the roots being shaped like fingers that fan and grip the soil, each one with a distinct curve so they can be identified by feel in the endless dark. When twigs fall, I weave them into wreaths and hang them along the road where we lived, and all the way out to the nearest field, so they might lead you to open space where you can breathe. When branches fall, I treat them the way I would your limbs, lowering them into a hole near those that have already fallen, shoveling dirt on top in the tempo of a dirge. When winter comes and the tree is bare I imagine your body, its life turned inward. I tell myself the soul is a soul and it has a body just as the tree does.
Dana Henry Martin’s work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, Barrow Street, Chiron Review, Cider Press Review, FRiGG, Muzzle, New Letters, Rogue Agent, Stirring, Willow Springs, and other literary journals. Martin’s poetry collections include the chapbooks Toward What Is Awful (YesYes Books), In the Space Where I Was (Hyacinth Girl Press), and The Spare Room (Blood Pudding Press). Their chapbook, No Sea Here (Moon in the Rye Press), is forthcoming.
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Beautiful, thank you!
Lovely, quiet poem melding body, spirit, tree, life, and loss.