A Canopy of Stars

She woke under a canopy of stars, each one blinking with as much surprise as she. Her hand touched the soft grass beneath her, a breeze caressed her face as it raced across the meadow. She sat up letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The moon was full and the sky clear. She was in a meadow surrounded by trees. It was as if mother nature had built a castle just for her. She heard some rustling now and then as small rabbits or frightened mice moved through the grass.

She looked down at herself and could barely make out a floral house coat. Not a robe but something more substantial. Her hair was dark in the moonlight and her hands seemed so much younger than she remembered. A noise across the meadow made her look up and a large stag broke through the treeline. He was huge and muscular. His crown of bone as long as he was tall. He was magnificent and she felt a tear roll down her cheek.
She stood up slowly. She didn’t want to spook the grand king of this wood. As she did the King moved toward her. He raced quickly from the wood to her in seconds, stopping five feet from her. She saw into his black eyes. They seemed as clear as the purest crystal. She kept still slowly reaching out her hand. To her surprise the King knelt before her and let her touch his proud nose. Her smile was a big as the swelling in her heart as she heard a soft voice somewhere far away.

In the white room the machines beeped and growled. Wires winding across the tiled floor to the single bed. Sitting on the bed was a young girl, no more than seven. She clutched onto a piece of paper that she held up to show the woman lying still beneath her.

“And see Nana. It’s so beautiful here and the King comes to say hi. He is a good King…so gentle. He will let you pat him and you won’t hurt anymore. I love you Nana.”

The girl lay back against the woman, still holding up the picture of a meadow, under stars, with the King standing proud.


Winter Calm.

whisper through the longest day

the spirit gives us pause

whisper through the coldest day

when eyes are all on you

perfect is the song of leaves

the instrument of nature

perfect is the chill in air

reflect on frosted mornings.


    In the stolen night, she danced with the fireflies, dressed in dry moss from the ancient tree. She danced to the music of the toads and the wind.She danced under the light of the moon and the old stars. She danced in circles, until she was too dizzy and fell to the soft damp earth that was her momentary stage. She breathed deep, the smell of the forest so strong. She turned to the old man of the wood.
    “Was that a good dance?” she asked.
    The wind blew through the leaves of the giant tree, its massive trunk creaking and moaning an answer only she could hear.
    “Why thank you old man,” she smiled, her voice floating on the same breeze.
    To look at her she was dirty. This waif of a girl covered in the dirt of the woods. Her face dark, arms even darker, matched only by the filth over her legs. This was a creature who left bathing to those that cared. To look upon her was almost sad, until she looked back and you saw her eyes. These were the eyes of wonder, of faith and survival. They were eyes that looked into your heart, grabbed hold, and squeezed until you could not breathe. She was innocence and beguile, magic and truth. She was more than she appeared, at least that’s what the old man thought.
    The tree was older than the forest. In truth he was the father of the forest. His seeds floating down sun to moon and moon to sun, for a million days. Each tree a son or grandson, or great, great, great…well you understand. He was proud of his dominion, proud of his sons and happily spent the hours being pleased of himself. He never thought of a daughter, never wanted for such a thing, until she came to his roots.
    She was small for a tree, he remembered thinking, and moved around too much for one of his kin. She had found a break in the ground between his roots and had fallen asleep to escape the cold. He took pity on the tiny thing and cradled her, warmed her and sung with the wind and leaf. He took her in and as the rain came he did something he had not done in a thousand years. He moved, he willed his roots to close in and shield the sapling from the wet and cold. With that she became his and he became hers and the days were much more exciting than they were before.
    The old man knew she was not truly his. He knew the kin of this sapling. His roots were old and went for miles under the soft blanket of the earth mother. He was aware of the trees that moved. He had seen their cities, heard the screams of his children that built those cities. He had witnessed entire generations killed by the walking trees and their tools. He was sad over the loss of so many, but with this small one he would try to understand them.
    “Old man!” she snapped him out of his trance.
    “Old man! Are you in your past again?” she winked and kicked out her heel. “Don’t make me dance again, cause I will!”
    If a tree could smile, then the old man would have a smile 15 feet wide. The wind rustled leaves and his bark cracked and crinkled.
    “Well, I love you too old man,” she whispered to the leaves.
    Years past, as years do, and the sapling became a woman and the woman became old, but never as old as the old man. her hair got whiter, her dancing got slower and her voice became quieter…
    “OLD MAN!!”
    The wind replied, “yyyeeesssss?”
    “I am old, I can’t dance. I can hear you, but can’t see. I have lived with you for a lifetime and learned so much. I remember my cradle, deep in your roots and I thank you for your kindness, your care and your love.”
    Her eyes, though cloudy, still burned with such life, as she fell to the earth with a sigh as her last breath.
    The old man saw her fall
    If trees could cry, he did.
    The ground seemed to tremble, as the earth seemed to move. His roots came to hold her, bring her back to her home. He cradled her gently, as she was a babe. His roots closed around her as the wind hit his leaves.
    Those who could hear it would have spun a tall tale…about the song in the wind that seemed too sad to be real. The forest went quiet as the old man sung. One more of his saplings, but this was no son.
    If trees could love…
    A tree did love.

ending…in the light of a broken blind…

and I heard her,

in the morning of the end,

the light through a broken blind,

the sun in my eyes,

the sting of the day,

her hip against mine,

a touch without thought,

it mattered.

her face,

turned to mine,

eyes closed,

soft noises of sleep,

without the harsh light in in her eyes,


in ways I could never say,

my hand on her cheek,

but I couldn’t feel,

her warmth was gone,

our life,

suddenly not a perfect grin,

my breath,

silent to this new day,

my body still,

but my heart remains,

my voice strained,

to just say one more time,

I love you,

and i am so sorry,

I never wanted to leave,

to go,

my darling…my darling…

I died.

His Tree.

The dark was like an endless twilight under the dark ceiling of green. As a breeze moved through the leaves above, sneaky sunbeams managed to get by the thick green. He looked at these rare circles of light on the earth and moss-covered ground. They looked like pools of water, rippling as if afraid the breeze that gave them life would return to end it.

He smiled as he plodded through the forest. He moved slowly and deliberately, cane in one hand and a bag in the other. His smile firmly planted on a face as wrinkled as the trees. He pushed through a familiar thicket to a clearing and his tree.
“Hello old man,” he said as he approached the large tree.

He placed his cane against the large trunk. His bag dropped to the ground with a sound of clinking metal. The old man placed his hand on the trunk and marvelled at how smooth it was.

“I think you are aging better than me Rupert.” he chuckled.

He called his tree Rupert, not sure why, it just seemed right. He knew that no tree was his, but after spending 65 years together he felt a bit of ownership. He leaned down to his bag and got out his shovel and fork.

“Work time Rupert,” and he began his weeding.

The day wore on, the old man on his hands and knees, methodically removing anything that could bother his friend. His joints ached and his breathing was heavy, but he smiled and talked as he worked. He talked of when he first found his friend.

It was after the war that took so much from him. The house he lived in was his parents and where he spent most of his life. The day he stumbled, quite literally, on Rupert, was the day he decided to stop living.

He had returned from the war, to the care of his parents. His voice long-lost in the horrors he had endured. The long nights, the blood and loss of so many of his friends tortured his mind. It was endless and painful. No one understood what was wrong with him. They tried all manner of treatments and nothing brought him out of his long nightmare.

One night he heard a whisper, deep down in his noisy head. Though quiet and distant, it seemed to break through the other voices and memories. He picked up his service revolver and left the house quietly. He moved into the forest without thought or plan. Slowly the whisper grew louder and the distance between him and his home grew farther.

He didn’t notice the branches or brambles that cut his arms and face. The weight of the gun heavy in his pocket. He moved toward the whisper until it stopped. He stood in a small clearing, covered in vines and rock. The rocks themselves seemed to be alive with the green moss that covered them almost completely.
The whisper was quiet, but he wanted to hear what it had to say. He looked up at the dark leaves of old trees and then closed his eyes to the world. He heard it.

“Just leave Peter,” his own voice whispered.

He reached into his pocket and held the gun in his shaky hand. He knew that the answer was to end all the voices. Perhaps if he joined those that left before him, he would finally be free. The gun’s barrel rested with a coolness against his temple. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip. As he increased the pressure on the trigger another whisper was heard.

“Help me,” as clear as his own voice.

Peter looked around in the slow light of the morning and saw nothing immediately. He shook his head and was about to lift the gun when he saw it. In the middle of the clearing, covered in vines and surrounded by craggy rocks was a sapling. It looked almost desperate in its need and want to live. Peter stared at it and felt his heart warm, felt his head clear and just like that he had purpose and a friend.

The old man chuckled and winked at Rupert.

“You saved me that day,” he said with a wink.

After a time the old man turned and sat with his back against his friends trunk. He stared up into the strong branches and marvelled at every leaf. If there ever was anything in this world that came close to perfect, his tree was close.

“I know I have tried to thank you Rupert. Tried to be good to you. I have moved rocks and vines. I have weeded and fed the soil around you. I have fought fungus and bugs alike, but you always seem to do a bit more for me.”

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellowing photo.

“She loved you too you know. We spent so much time here. I still thank you for being here when she passed. I am a man of few words, but you let me cry without judging me. You never judge me Rupert, I never thanked you for that. God I cried rivers for her. I know you did in your own way.”

As if to answer, the leaves of his friend rustled in a light breeze. Peter looked up again and nodded.

“Thanks old man.”

Peter felt his bones ache, felt the air in his lungs struggling to feed his old body. He felt the tingle in his hand and the heavy beat of his tired heart.

“I don’t think I will be able to tend to you much longer,” he said as tears filled his eyes. “It isn’t that I don’t want to. I hope you know that. It’s just I am old and men that get old usually don’t last to long.”

He chuckled as he grasped the photo.

“I wish I could have buried her here. I wish I could be buried here. My kids never really understood you and me. I think my eldest thought his dad was a bit nuts.”

The breeze rustled the leaves, though no wind was felt on his face. He smiled as he felt his friend on his back, strong and well, Rupert would live on. His breathing became shallow, his aches faded, as his mind drifted to his wife. He remembered the first day he introduced her to his tree and how her face it up with joy. He loved her for understanding and sharing in his tree, his friend.

The sky moved on to night and the old man moved on too.

The middle aged man and his son moved quickly through the forest.

“Dad!” He called out worried sick.

His son kept up with his father calling out for his granddad as loudly. They had not realized the old man was missing until the morning. The Father busy with a deal that would earn him some much needed debt relief and the son just busy being 14. They didn’t spend much time with the old man, life always seemed to get in the way.

As they pushed through a thick bramble they stumbled into a clearing that didn’t fit.

“Welcome to wonderland Alice,” the father murmured.

The clearing was immaculate. Almost a perfect circle, completely clear of debris or tangled weeds. In the centre was a tree, huge and beautiful. The boy felt his breath shorten at how perfect it was. The father shook his head as tears streamed down his face. He stared at the lower branches seeing his father cradled like a babe almost 20 feet above them. He moved closer, placing a hand on the mythical trunk of the friend he had heard about all his life.

“Hello Rupert,” he sobbed falling to his knees.

The boy stared up confused as to how his old Papa could have reached those branches. He felt tears on his own cheeks and a warmth that he couldn’t explain. His eyes moved to the ground where he saw the start of a weed in the clean dirt. He knelt down and carefully removed the pesky intruder.

“Don’t worry Papa,” he whispered, “I got this.”