A TREE BY THE SEA

She is a windblown tree planted by the sea. Her branches are battered by no less than a strong breeze. She has felt the wind and the rain. She is twisted and gnarled, bent in ways that remind of pain.The watcher steps up and lays his hand in her grooves. He feels the loss when she thought she had nothing left to lose. A branch broken and hanging by a splintered limb. He twists it free, something to take with him. A piece of her with leaves long dead. Cracking crumbling twigs she sheds in discarded debris as he drags it behind. The rough shale scattered path from the cliff winds down to the beach and stops in the sand.  The watcher sets down the branch and looks back to where she stands.

She is tall but bowed away from the sea in a posture of deference she has bent her knee. The wind has spoken. She knows her place. She is bent yet unbroken. Her roots grip deeply in a hidden space. Down in the rocks of the cliff where she stands her body has reached secret places, wound beneath the sands. The depth of her growth penetrates further with each gust of wind. Roots search within the rock that she clings to for her very life. The watcher looks down at his feet and knows the secret she hides.

The branch lies in the sand near a fresh water stream that flows from the rock and into the sea. He has watched her closely. He has observed all her ways. He knows her. He knows her strength. He knows she thrives on fresh water drank from this stream that seeps up into her body and nourishes her leaves.

He looks at the branches still anchored to the tree and the other branch that broke free. One is dead without hope for rebirth. The others stretch up away from the earth. One is withered, lifeless, and scarred. The others are strong, life-giving, yet marred by a remembrance that they too could be snatched from their source. Ripped away. Taken by force. He picks up in his hand the forsaken branch. He feels the rough edges knowing there is a chance for him to make use of this discarded possession. He will fashion a weapon.

He knows from experience the strength in this flesh. He will wield it knowing in confidence he can rest. Her strength will advance him as he bends her strong bow. She will fling from his hand an unbreakable arrow.

He knows she will stand there for years to come being battered by the wind and warmed by the sun. He knows she will never see the battles fought or the victories won. He knows at times she will feel forgotten in her pain. Her sacrifices wrought in vain. Yet the watcher knows that she stands as the winds blow. That even from her broken and dead places victory flows. His hand bends the bow. In quietness and rest she lets her limbs grow.

His hands bring the victory. She stands firm on the rock by the sea.