In The Shadow of the Tree

In the shadow of the tree
I lay my head
And wish away the years gone by.

Torment me not the lost moments,
Viewed through a haze of doubt
Among cloudy images of people
Long forgotten,
Yet somehow remembered.

Not a willow, this tree,
Made by God, yet shaped by man,
Where You will but rest
So that I may rest,
Not to suffer the burden false.

I pray no longer to writhe in pain,
To seek and find the worthy mirror
Of all the things I am meant to be,
Long forgotten,
Yet somehow remembered.

Rail at me not the vulgar times
That pressed and twisted my weary mind,
Not a willow, this tree,
No, not a willow;
Planted, yet not by the hands of man,
But so it would be justly so.

For when the tree was planted
The sky grew dark;
The boulders split;
The curtains torn;
And the bitter taste of
Vinegar...
Upon the sweet lips of eternity.

In the shadow of the tree
I lay my head,
Wishing away the years gone by.
Wash your hands of this do not,
For it was this tree,
Not lumber, yet the very wood
From which history was built.

No burden false this tree,
Certainly not,
Achieved through suffering,
Time,
Like a red carpet,
(Or a table cloth)
Unfolds,
As do the roots of the tree,
Calling all people home,
In the shadow of the tree.

Copyright by Andrew T. Durham