Grandmother Willow

I am seeing the leaves of this tree change from forest green to sunset orange.

If I were a botanist or even an archaeologist I would understand the stages of its life.

I could count its rings and study its story. I could smell the bark and instantly know its origin.

Would this make me appreciate its majesty more? How it stands tall; hundreds of feet above me, seeing the world in all its splendor and affliction

I wonder what stories it would tell?

Would it weep of pain and remorse? If it had eyes would it use its long, spindly branches to blind itself of the horror it's been forced to witness?

Or if it had a face would it bear a melancholy smile for the love of its roots, this land, its seasons and worlds unknown beyond where it stands?

If it were shorter; barely a foot above me, less aged and unfamiliar, I might not have given it a second glance.

As I acknowledge the leaves change its colors so effortlessly and openly on this tree; its poise and sapience surpassing the tiny grains of intellect I contain, I am learning acceptance.

I am breathing life. I am feeling an unconditional love unobtainable by conventional practices.

I have seen who I want to be.

I am seeing me.