To my holiday home
Planted in the fertile ground,
you come alive
every spring.
You are a mighty tree
of a kind never seen before.
Your hexagonal trunk speaks of unusual stability,
a rare virtue these days.
Your cracked bark,
a house to ants,
is witness to your old age.
You stand on a cliff spreading your arms,
Protecting the village from landslides.
Each new rain leaves you more exhausted.
Yet, you are still attractive,
and those yellow flowers you share your bed with
guard you jealously from idle views.
In your magnanimity,
you have opened your lodgings to many,
including us.
We stand before you every spring,
counting your numerous scars,
tending to your fresh wounds,
watching for traces of treacherous instability.
We stand before you today, oh mighty one,
our keys at the ready,
as we fight an army of angry wasps
who live in your mailbox.
We stand before you, oh wise one,
as we breathe in the aroma
of wild mint and yarrow.
We are ready to listen
and to learn,
while squirrels run about in the attic
and the owls stand vigil in the night.
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