At the age of 12 the thing I loved to do most was climb a tree in a nearby park.
I would place my shoes at the base of the tree’s trunk.
Up I would go, bare feet against rough branches
Never looking down.
Tilting my head toward the tree top
Where the leaves would flash with light,
Moving with the breeze,
I would find a fork of branches
Big enough to sit in.
Knees up under my chin
Toes digging into the bark
I looked out on the world of tree tops
And the birds who found easy perches there.
Sometimes I would bring a book
And read on a swaying branch.
One day a park policeman saw my shoes at the base of the tree and looked up.
“Hey, little girl, come down from there. You are not allowed up there.”
He waited.
I climbed down.
“Don’t do that again,” he admonished
I slipped on my shoes,
Those shoes, whose presence had given me away,
And left my tree, left the park,
Walked quickly, embarrassed to having been found,
Never turning around to see if he was following me.
At age 70,
When all other thoughts are exhausted,
I dream again of climbing trees.
I always have been so busy
Doing this and that.
I’ve had no time to stop and look for a tree to climb,
Or follow the passage of ants as they scurry up the their trail of bark,
Or find a bird’s nest balanced on a high branch..
Now
I take off my shoes,
Curl my arms around the trunk
Reach up,
Think about
Sitting up top for a while,
Without speech.
It would be enough just to be up there
Swaying,
And not come down for anyone
But you.
