A Fortress Holds
Alone it stands, solitary, deeply anchored to the sand and loam that supports its foundation, biding its time until the rain and the sun with its warmth glowing bright, again signals the wake up as it has for decades untold. The limbs and branches are bare now, but it knows it will soon feel the urge and hear the silent internal call to birth the buds that mothers the leaves.
How it came to rest upon and then grow and live at this secluded location is a mystery perhaps only known to God. I reckon it’s possible that it was intentionally planted there by a farmer hundreds of full moons ago for his wife or his children or perhaps just himself, but there isn’t any sign of any previous dwelling or structure nearby. There isn’t anything nearby; only its towering wooden frame.
Birds will carry the seeds from a brief lunch and layover high atop and within a sister’s green crown and then deposit them while in flight from miles
away; free falling, the tiny grain will find its way into earth's womb and call it home.
The four corners of the four sections of land intersect each other; the gentle roll of the fields reaching in every direction; nothing much in sight except the sky and everything it creates, both good and bad. There is no discernible reason or clue offered; it just is, handsome and wrinkled and proud all at once, like an old man with the memories only he has weathered.
The diameter of its base is mighty, the thick bark separated by wide vertical gaps running upwards, splintered and frayed, peeling back layers, shedding its aged skin. Its muscular arms point outwards, some reaching for the blue above and others fighting gravity and time; symmetry has no meaning; perseverance is all that matters.
Traffic on the roads leading to and away are dirt and gravel, going hours, possibly days before they see a soul. And still it waits, stretching high, partially majestic and maimed, partially twisted and true, yet hopeful and assured with itself.
During its earlier years it shared the company of travelers and wanderers, sweethearts and field hands taking refuge in its shade for a nap or a picnic or a rest from the harness and the plow. It has seen the entire world’s emotions on the grasses of its skirt. The hidden treasures, lost or discarded under its cool canopy are buried, mere inches below the surface, undetected and undiscovered. It would be a desecration to up end them now. A ring or a locket, a wrench or a sprocket, they belong where they are, nestled and secure among the roots.
Its sense of perception is not that different from our own, except that they’re received and interpreted on a level unbeknownst to us. It has seen the storms brewing in the distance and felt the wrath when their paths cross. It has heard and shouldered the roar of the wind sweeping down from the northern plain. It has drunk from the well of thunderheads’tears and waited patiently, parched when they flirted away or tore apart prematurely. It has dozed and daydreamed, tranquil, on crystal clear days. It cannot talk, but if you look and listen hard enough it speaks with eloquence. It has a voice. It says. "I'm here."
It has survived the axe and the oven, the hot whip and crack of the cumulus bolt, the fires, the freezes, and the parasitic cancers that can fall
the strongest timber. It defines tough. I like to think it defines us.
