Reflection
Outside my
window a veritable bird’s nest
Of a tree
droops its errant offspring
Over the
garden wall.
Never
checked or pruned
Its
interlace of branches fans the sky.
Supporting
it, and at its centre, like Atlas,
A moss-
green trunk stands motionless.
Atlas is
about my age
Planted
here the year I was born.
Do his arms
ache, like mine,
Holding up
his world?
Or has he
learnt ease with stillness?
And no
longer frets, as I do
At the
antics of offspring?
But holds
fast to himself
And knows
that they too
Will learn
stillness over time.
Copyright
with Cathy Leonard 2018
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