At Seventy-Seven
I was nine in the Mulberry Tree
The singing fell out of me,
a pour of viriditas and joy.
The tree, she recognized me!
In the Ciruela Tree at seventy-seven,
again I am recognized, and sing.
I’m as happy once more
as when I was nine.
I sit in her lap
where her wide trunk branches into five,
and she lifts me closer to the dusky sky.
I perch, a singing wren above me.
Already gone to sleep,
the towhees and house sparrows
who feast on my seeds in the mornings.
A plaintive Robin calls goodnight.
I dream new dreams in this perch,
my just right place.
This is the evening I vow to be
the best Lover of Earth I can.
As twilight brings her subtle kisses,
I throw my own with upraised arm.
Through a net of branches, the lavender sky
pours tenderness upon the world.
©Susa Silvermarie 2025
💜💜💜💜💜. 🥰
Susa, Your poem reminds me of how I loved to climb high into my aunt’s cherry tree and the pear tree across the road from Gramma’s summer home. I always chose those perches where I could have a fruit snack as well as observe what went on below. They called me a “tomboy” and I treasured the label. Your seat is a lot more comfortable than mine used to be, but it befits an elegant crone who needs a safe spread of branches from which to pour her tenderness.
Ah Jennie, the trees have saved and nurtured so many of us young tomboy girrls!