What Grows Around

At four I noticed the black scar
a flat place where something might live
inside the great charter oak
overlooking the St. Johns River

My grandfather picked me up
and I would knock on the spot
listening for little feet
for scurrying
for anything wild
and free

At night the city lights across the river
twinkled like stars
the chaga-chaga, chaga-chaga of
crickets and cicadas
roaring through the window
with the breeze

By six I knew about the lost limb
how the tree man
covered the tear
with plywood and tar

how the tree grew around it

And when she died I remember
the numb grief
the hole in the center
where she had been and now
wasn’t

I can still hear her voice
soft as white curtains
rustling
on a night
long ago

quiet as a lullaby
growing around it

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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to What Grows Around

  1. Loved the pace and the description in this one – excellent, – el Mosk

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