Meditation on a Tree
I love these trees, I love the brillo-wy texture and the color, the
nearly life-less gray. And it hangs in the wind through rain and
storms. The moss is old. It has to have been there for a while for it
to have descended from the scrap of seed that landed on that tree,
on that spot in the tree, at that minute–and it took: it grew and
grew downward nearly touching the ground. Heading for earth
like smoke heads for the sky.
I like these trees. They remind me of home. They remind me that
when life sucks, you still grow; and you keep growing until one day
you just stop, stop growing and the decay sets in immediately. The
return to dust, the next to final resting place before the eternal boom
of time reaches its super-sonic speed and the whole thing turns into
a mess, decays on the spot, and dispenses so quickly that there will
be nothing to notice that it no longer exist. It is no longer there, and
you are no longer there–and every one’s ancestors will be gone. And
there will be no one to notice.
The Universe will not end with a whimper, Mr. Eliot, it will end
with a bang that smother all bangs that have ever come before it.
It is the moment when space and time merge into a darkness, a void,
a vastness of eternal nothing. No memoires will be left behind, saints
and sinners alike will burn, at first hot and lava like, but eventually
to the flickers of embers. “and who for us will intercede when even
saint’s shall comfort need.”