By Steve Petersen
Standing in the desert on the edge of an ancient garden being shown a tree of dying nature
trunk and branches brown, burned by chemical abuse, neglect from tip to root a dying Palo Verde.
“This is your tree. Make it live with words and work poetic form and we shall call it ‘Poet Tree’.”
Trimmed raked pruned resolved the toxin waste
about the roots with haste. Opened up the ground.
flushed water up and down from root to all the limbs. Within a month the green returned.
Yellow flowers, bees sucked nectar from their heart. Doves, quail, a nightingale. Runners of the road soon stopped to rest at “Poet Tree”.
A hammock hung with new framed poems and wind chimes announced by weathered log and letters signed by Kass. Birdcage with an open door for love and beauty to be shared with all the world.
Horned toads, lizards, spiders, ants, little plants of desert flowers, a young mother with her two small ones
Playing on a blanket in the shade of “Poet Tree”.
“This is my favorite place in all the world, my babies too. Like no other time in a more than busy week, we come here to share our love and dreams”.
A family tree
Poems and other gifts I’ve found about and me a simple poet no more worthy than a grain of sand
And yet I share this space with families,
mountains, Indian spirits and the artists of Palapas about the “Poet Tree”.
Starting early to a Sunday rising sun I walked in reverence toward the tree and in the hammock slept a naked man, wrapped in burgundy.
I stood in silence, hearing only the wind chimes and my beating heart.
As wonderment consumed my thoughts, he stirred.
Looking directly at me as he moved to sit he asked,
“Are you the poet of the ‘Poet Tree’?”
His gentle eyes and bearded face reflected peace
and in it’s place a medicine bag hung around his neck across a dark tattoo a crest of his conviction.
“You wrote these words floating in the wind?” he asked. A whirl wind came from nowhere
moving everything in a flurry, then settled.
“Yes, I am the poet and the ‘Poet Tree’ is me”.
He remained sitting and spoke, “I am sorry if I have intruded and will move on if you like. Currently this is my home and I have never in my life found a more wonderful place to be.”
I bid him welcome and invited him to stay. This is, in reality, a place for one and all to share.
Who knows in a world gone by
this may have been the “Tree of Life”, and the man
The young man stayed for several weeks. I found out later that he was a rising star, a concert pianist from the East coast looking for answers before making the biggest commitment of his young life, marriage.