Midair at 60 Feet

I found it this morning early,
before the birds awoke,
before there was light from anything
except my clock.

I found that feeling this morning,
the one last felt aloft
in a sugar maple --
the tree I took as my own
when I was young.

Three stories high by the world’s
reckoning,
(but not as high as I could have climbed)
where the branch split
and forked in two
I wove a hammock from baling twine,
left over, looped and braided
to form a web,
a resilient woven bed in a widening V
that dipped and swayed in the wind
but always held.

I found it again this morning
the falling back into the arms
of my tree, my maple.
Nothing to do but give in to it
knowing that the V will hold,
the swaying will come
and go,
the branches will bend
and return.
I follow the wind’s lead
and my body softens

Such peace I found, such joy.
But even then, in autumn -
one half orange, one half green -
my tree was signaling distress. It died
by degrees
til only its stump remained,
peering through saplings
young and strong

I can hardly remember now
the vigor of its youth,
the strong wove bed where letting go,
surrender,
was an every day event.

As years have robbed the love of heights,
as turbulent winds blow through,
as life and loss keep us from climbing,
how joyous to reclaim
the memory of a strong young tree
and feeling safe
midair at 60 feet


Susan Murata