AUTUMN TREE

Bill Olson

http://www.oocities.org/iconostar/fiction.htm

The branches, now mostly bare of leaves, appear lonesome, silhouetted above me.

Am I like that – a skeleton with arms reaching skyward crying for a rebirth, a humble offering of flesh, of life?

Like the tree, I cannot hang my head in sorrow or weep upon the ground. I am bound here, a showcase for all to see, for all to interpret from their own view of life. Perhaps they will pass me by without a care. Perhaps they will envy my kind of beauty. Perhaps they will ignore me as they pass, only to sneak glances when they think I'm not looking. Am I the center of a freak show, then?

Trees give a sudden burst of color in the autumn. It's a flagrant display that warms hearts. Those colors are a last hurrah.

What is my last hurrah? Have I one?

No.

My leaves were always gone. I'm that tree that never bloomed.

Still, they never chop me down. I remain, the vestige of failed dreams.

I want more than to be a tree, even a tree that blooms full of colors and life near the year's end, or that glistens of silver stars after the rain. Perhaps I could be a lilac, or a stone, or a moth. Can reincarnation be real? If so, my imagination boggles.

I would like to hang my head down, to weep. I would like to bloom, or to fly upon the wind. I would like to be loved one day, scorned the next – to experience the fullness of life.

Only in this richness of expression and experience can I accept my lot. Not only accept it, but also appreciate it, and claim it with pride as part of my repertoire.

6/28/87