Being elder–
I have little shade to offer and no fruit. My blood has turned to a dry, sticky sap. Water me, or not–I have become used to infrequent feedings. If I am bugged by a few parasites–well, this blight is the elder’s plight–thus I am told.
My voluptuous foliage was once a refuge for many–no one left hungry. But when my leaves fell, and branches withered, they moved on.
The birds still visit and rest on my brittle bones and sing. I understand their songs, now. And the occasional drifter, or wild child will befriend me –they have no need for softness but want the harsh realness that only those near death can share.
It’s inevitable–this final season. I am happy that I have left bits and pieces of me everywhere–the rest goes to that evergreen over there…I have promised him the last dance. bjb 2020.
barb j beyers 