Sitting with the Plum Tree

Her bones hold quiet
yoga poses now,
the old plum tree that in the fall
every day danced red fruit down.

I sit with the silent tree.
Her roots deep beneath
lend me steadiness.
Her palm lifts huge from the ground
into five thick fingerlimbs.
Crawling along them,
vines wider than my wrists
caress like necklaces.
Each leaf of the tropical vine,
enormous as a window,
hangs pendulous in jungle green
and scissored out like paper art.

Reflecting or writing,
or swaying in the hammock she holds,
I’m hanging out with the plum tree,
over and over asking for counsel.

Plum tree, what can I do?
Do anything you can
so the children don’t grow to be haters,
says Michel after her son Laor
was murdered by Hamas.
Do anything you can
so they grow up to be lovers,
gentle lovers like her gentle giant son.
I keep asking for counsel
I keep straining to hear it.

Do anything you can
to stop the killing, says Michal.
War is not the way you fix things.
The Israeli mother begs the world.

What can I do, what can I do,
I keep asking the old giant tree.
Every day I sit with her,
I stretch my skin to listen for instruction,
I change my shape into an ear.
I think I hear her sigh,
Oh humans, oh humans.
She’s telling me something
but oh, how slow a student I am.
Awaiting my comprehension,
her patient bones hold quiet.

                      ©Susa Silvermarie 2024