Thursday, September 02, 2004
Under The Vision Tree:
In the soft fog of morning,
Rays of sunlight just peeking through,
A silence of the birds is reverent,
Under the vision tree.
The grass is green in the field yet,
Just beyond the branches drooping,
Eerie white clouds hug the ground,
Back-lit leaves appear black.
The old barn and farm house sit,
Silent and empty of all but shadows,
With the encroaching suburbs at my back,
I feel the ghosts of children who once laughed.
The park has become prairie again,
The boarded windows look over a barren silo,
Bare stone foundations like headstones,
Presiding over the reminiscence of past glory days.
How many children climbed those branches,
Full of imaginings in Summer heat,
Dreaming of grown up lives far and wide,
Or of the school year's end in Spring?
In the spine-tingling shadows,
I see hints of sunlight just breaking through,
The bees will awaken as morning warms,
Blooms will open to hummingbirds and rabbits.
Like the husk of last year's monarch,
Faded orange and dead black,
The laughter of children long faded to empty silence,
Perhaps echoed betwixt nursing home walls.
Still I can almost see horses,
An old grey tractor and fresh brown Earth,
Clothes pinned on a line and puppy tails wagging crazily,
Long lost music staring me down,
As I stare afar under the vision tree.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
The park where I practice saxophone in the Summer was a farm once. Most of
it is still there, but not the people, nor the life. It is a haunting place.