There is a tree
That I carved my initials into
Circa June, 1970.
I want you to find it
And ask the tree
To not think less of me.
The unfortunate truth
Is that we are all scarred
So, look for the tree
And maybe you will know a little more of me.
Colorado was a wild tumbleweed waystation
And I was focused on my shallower self
Swiss army knife in hand
With no concern, not much
For your skin my friend
I just wanted to memorialize in the smooth bark
Those moments...
Make them come to full stop.
I had faith in your grey skin
That it would heal strong and bear witness
And that you would curate my marks.
Truth be known at this stop down the line
That those marks mean less
Than the whole of the tree,
And its persistent living and generous breathing,
As trees are nothing
If not tolerant gifts
To you and me.
-P. Sanderson
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