Festival of the Trees
“Dah. Dah. Dah.” There is window and light, ice
and snow. My questions are packed in her life.
Dah? The cherry’s bare branches spun in ice – this
architecture of absence I cherish. “Dah?” she
points. “Dah?” At the bare light my
granddaughter. Dah. Yes. Ice. I gesture to tree.
“Yes, yes,” I coach. Emma Aliyah,
“One who is whole, one who becomes.” She
thrusts from my arms. She wants.
What’s out there. Snow. Dah,
wanting what falls. Snow falling
in blossoms the size of spring.
The solace of repetition sits like a wise guide
in the tree. The guide just there waiting…. Dah. Just
beyond reach. Dah. Everything new as a new child
pointing to her first snow falling, ice cradled within
the cherry’s expectant branches.
