In the Catholic cemetery on our reservation, a tree’s roots make their way toward my parents’ graves. Someday, those roots and my parents will become one body, one blood, one pine. You have your Eucharist and I have mine.
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Thanks, Sherman. A few days ago there was an article in the NYT about trees, how their growth rings show precipitation. It's hard for me to read articles about trees dying or facing death. One blood, one pine is what we are.
You increase my perception of the every day, so in lieu of tobacco or a braid of sweetgrass in gratitude, I give you a poem:
In the Kitchen with Sherman
From the Subaru or studio
Across miles and mountains
His voice is welcomed
Into my day with a tap
Warmth radiates over the digital waves
I feel as if he's across my table
Having just popped in for
Coffee and one of my famous scones
He's worn, weary, and tired
Energy of connection and story
Caffeine and sugar rouse him to
Tell me...what stirred today,
What lurked behind the years
But mostly, just good to see you
Glad for the day you were born.