A Gold Medallion Tree

I live in a garden in the sky,

floating in the marshmallow clouds,

watching birds and planes fly by.

​

I follow the giant monarch butterfly

as it flutters past my eyes,

following the puddled dirt path, through the

eternal tulips, mourning poppies, and thorned roses.

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The butterfly makes a ribbon in the sky,

dancing over the green lily pond,

speckled with the pink of lilies.

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Finally, we arrive,

and the path is cut short

by the city of trees.

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Oaks, elms, birches, and rowans,

junipers, sycamores, kukuis, and magnolias

encircle a short hill.

As if guarding whatever may be on it,

with shields of a thousand flowers

and a million leaves.

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I walk into the phalanx of colors:

the bright pink of oaks, elms, junipers:

the glaring white of rowans, kukuis, magnolias;

the drooping spines of birches and sycamores;

the brilliant green of the spring foliage;

and the radiant gold of the autumn leaves;

all turn towards me. Attempting to attack,

stab, prick, prod me, with spears

of their illusions of brilliance.

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But through it all, I see a lonely tree,

half way up that grassy green hill.

A gold medallion, bowing with a curtain of soft yellow flowers,

with more right than any other to shine in the spotlight.

Each of her flowers: small yellow star, a perfect reflection of a brilliant sun,

jewels on its bedazzling green crown.

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Yet she bows out of the spotlight,

content to watch as others shine

with a temporary brilliance that fades to lifelessness,

with a branch that seems to never be within reach,

with a disgusting bitter fruit that took years to grow.

But I know, if she wished, her light,

would dim all others around her.

​

I sit learning on the welcoming trunk,

and look up at the setting sun, remembering

the first time, five years ago

I walked halfway on this hill

and poured out my emotions for the first time

in a lifetime. Taking until 11 at night, 

when I wished to the stars above:

I could always have someone

who would listen,

who would care,

who would try to understand.

​

As we watch the sunset together,

we sign as another day passes,

knowing my visits were numbered.

But now and forever, I am grateful.

Grateful for that gold medallion tree halfway up a short grassy hill.