Resilience

Resilience
When trees are wounded, torn
by shearing wind or saw,
their trunks bulge round the break,
in time encompassing
all but a rough dry scar.

Trees pruned beneath the wires
will sculpt themselves as signs
of arbitrary loss,
slow healing and regrowth,
their new leaves reaching high.

A flood might wash away
a major clump of roots:
tree falls, becomes a bridge,
still shoots, while on the bank
new upright trunks emerge.

When heat gives way to cold,
some massive branches drop
from towering eucalypts.
Harsh change can strip us too,
with ragged tearing crash.

Can we, when broken, grow
resilient as a tree
that stretches wood to heal,
undaunted, reaches high,
delighting in the sky?

Do trees in truth delight?
Among the fringed pink cups
of honey-scented flowers
the parrots pirouette,
their colours neon bright.

Look! Gold of setting sun
is caught on rain-wet leaves,
a spangled dance of light.
Let us, when torn by loss,
dare forge renewed delight.
	Barbara Messner 8/05/2023