There is a Santa Rosa plum tree,
which I planted on
the 118th day of 1975,
over a septic field,
in the more-or-less-an-acre
at the end of Hyland Way,
a cul-de-sac
on Sonoma Mountain,
in Penngrove, California.
I have visited there,
seen that tree still lives,
quite spindly at 51,
well past its plan,
somewhat like me at 82,
yet we both still bear fruit.
I am certain that part of who
I am is due to that old tree
and part of that tree is due to me.
The prompt was “veil”, and the chalk was to not use that word…
Back in the day,
draped in the trappings
of a warrior,
he fought alongside
his buddies, his comrades,
not free of fear,
of course not,
but then, none of them were.
Later in life,
after surviving the suffering,
given the mantle of heroism
by others, never himself,
he learned to tread softly
in this life,
becoming a true hero to the trees,
the lakes and rivers,
the very earth itself.
In the face of
strong opposition,
he earned the cloak of humility,
practicing loving care, empathy,
harmlessness, learned
it was possible to be
truly brave, strong,
a healer more often than not,
smothering anger and bitterness
with compassion and tenderness,
rejoicing in each new day.
