The Tree

The years have faces.
With eyes, now shut, seen many moons faded.
We are the product of people and places.

And somehow, somewhere, a tree was created.

I wonder what that tree was made of.

Who might have rested under her, where it was shaded?

And where might the wind have blown the seeds of her making?

History is often nameless,

Timeless and dateless,

Amidst the movement of the ages.

But I feel that history in my veins and, 

I feel the stories that have taken place in, 

A dozen towns and cities that remained.

And in another dozen that are degraded.

The faces of the generations, posthumously waiting,  

In patience, breath abated,

While yet another tree is originating.

To sprout another lineage, beautifully latent.

This is the cycle of life, fugacious and nascent.

And we are the fruit of the tree, temporal and sacred.