a tree of infinite roots

going to be writing some religious tree poems coming up~

5. the good gardener 4.22.25

my God is a good gardener,
he is steady with his hands
and careful with his planting,
setting each star in the sky,
each river in its groove,
and every tree in its home,
and so i have to believe
he will give me enough sun
and soil to last the winter,
the God who set an olive branch
in a dove's beak for Noah,
set Moses' burning bush aflame,
and planted Elijah's broom tree,
set me exactly where i am supposed to be.

Spoiler

@Meshugenah, @candyhearts, @Wolfi, @Hkumar, @FireEyes, @Apricity, @Quillfeather

Thank you all so much for the kind comments! <3 You're all so sweet, and I love your analysis!

Mesh - ancestry poetry forever! <3
candyhearts - love that way of phrasing it, I do always try to keep hopeful in my poems, glad that comes out!
Wolfi - glad you caught that aspect of the trees being double-sided in a way, I hoped that would come across as I think that's kind of poetic that trees are both reaching up and down at the same time - like the past + future do.
Hkumar - ah great contrast with generational wealth, yes! exactly what I was going for there.
FireEyes - TREE FRIEND! <3 thank you for both sweet comments!
Apricity - <33333 well thank you!
Quill - wish me luck, I just have... 25 more poems xD We'll see! I wrote a tree + Bible series for church, so hoping to turn those into poems now ... maybe!

6. our cursed tree 4.23.25

eve cannot take all the blame,
for listening to the whispering in her ear,
i know how sweet the serpent's lies sound,
and adam is no more guilty than i am too,
my hands have unfolded, greedy to grasp
at what isn't mine, and folded around the fruit -

the garden's evil tree, is mine too,
for i find myself gritting the same old fruit
between my teeth, and wondering why
i couldn't have listened when the gardener
told me he believed "you are very good."

instead i listened to the serpent that told me
i could be better, "if only, if only"
and reached at what wasn't mine to hold.

7. from dust to dust to the fire that never consumes 4.23.25

my great grandfather spent more time in the tunnels of mines, than in the scorch of summer's sun. he said he knew how to see in the dark. but sometimes i wonder if that is a lie only blind men tell. i once spent an entire day digging my fingernails into a playground's sandbox, thinking i could make it through the core of the earth and into a new world. my mother told me, it'd be too hot - so i put on my swimsuit and sunglasses and prepared to burn-alive if needed. there are some things i'd be willing to die for. one day my grandfather emerged from the mines and could not stop coughing, the dust had filled his lungs, like he had ravished the mines, and it wouldn't leave. his last request, was that they would not bury him when he died, because he wanted to see the sun. i have crossed the place where his bones were buried, and contemplated digging a tunnel through the earth to the other side of the world with him, so we could find out where the world ends together. one day when my lungs are full of whatever the world weighs me down with, i want them to tie a lock of my hair to the tail of a hawk and we can fly into the sun.

8. and we became a living soul.

at the beginning of creation, God chose
to take a single rib from Adam, to mold into his wife,
and the world would say I should be offended,
but have you ever tried to breathe with a broken rib,
the air creases your lungs against your chest,
and you gasp because even breathing is impossible
when this essential portion of being has been damaged,
perhaps Plato's theory of man and woman severed in half
searching for the mirror of their self, is not too gruesome
against what we are. I am everything I need to be in the world,
and fully, wholly whole, and yet,
when my head leans against your settled chest, my breath catches
because everything has found its place.

9. Gethsemane - and the olive branch 4.23.25

the olive tree is useful for many things -
its oil, for treating wounds, for anointing kings,
for fueling lamps, but the fruit must be crushed
to bear its oil - the trunk beaten, and the fruit
pressed under a heavy wooden beam, and so it is
with the Son of God - he came to bind wounds
of the broken, to adopt us for a better kingdom,
to be a light to the darkened world - but first,
he endured the wrath of the cross,
so the fruit could flow,
so our sin could be covered.
Adam's son, boarded a stronger ark,
to endure the bitter storm,
to become the olive branch
the world would reject.

10. i won't be your olive branch 4.23.25

do not use me as your olive branch -
as your broken promise you offer with your fingers crossed,
a slender bartering chip you hope will sway the war,
do not wave me around like a white flag
you'll offer if the enemy accepts your scheme
i will not be a cooperative hostage
i will not go quietly.

do not use me as your olive branch -
i have let you both pull at my limbs
for too many years
and my patience is thin,
and all my heartstrings unraveling,
and i will let my bones snap
before i get stretched anymore.

do not use me as your olive branch -
loving me for show, when it suits your plans,
while letting me drown with the flood,
sometimes you must find your own peace,
instead of stealing it from your own branches.

11. the tree of life | Kyrie Eleison

The first tree planted in scripture, since the Fall, since the curse,
is planted with a promise - "we won't have war anymore"
Abraham makes a covenant with two eternal witnesses;
the tamarisk tree, and his God; the Everlasting Ones
the promise, is said like a prayer, like every promise
Abraham has held and planted, waiting for sprigs of life
to emerge from the soil. His beloved son was born,
only weeks ago, and his other son abandoned, but
he promises, "we won't have war anymore"
to the God who sees, and the God who keeps his word.
The tamarisk tree lives long past Father Abraham,
until she only has God to remind of their promise -
"no war, no war, just grow, just grow" she sings
her refrain to the wind, to the sun, to the soil,
and waves her branches to the heavens
in prayerful remembrance.

Years later, another tamarisk stands
as witness to the light, its shade not for promise,
but for burial, which is another type of prayer
- her roots will hold what's left of Saul's body;
a king un-made, his bones brought back
by loyal men, their footsteps soft thunder in the pre-dawn dust
and the tree lets her roots bend back like arms curved in cradle
to hold this lost son of Abraham, to tend to a prayer
her grandmother passed in leaf-songs to her mother,
and to her, "no war, no war anymore, anymore,
Lord, let a better seed grow, let it grow."
she raises her branches, while her roots hold bones,
and prays to the Everlasting God, she sings
to the Lord of Abraham, of Saul, of cursed trees.

Years pass, more kings fall, and fathers die with sons,
and another tree stands in a world gone black,
her roots broken off, she's propped up like a corpse,
but her branches hold an old curse, and an ancient promise,
nailed to her limbs she cradles the one they call King,
a seed of Abraham, a seed of God, who knows the song
their ancestors sang, and he sings it as he dies,
"no war anymore, no war, no war, bury me
with the pain of the world, forgive them Father,
for they know not what they do"
and the sun turns dark, as the Everlasting One,
keeps his promise and buries his son,
telling his children to wait - for from this seed
death has died, and the tree of life will finally grow.

Genesis 21 | 1 Samuel 31 | John 19

At the worst part of Abraham's story, he planted a tamarisk tree, at the worst part of Saul's story he is buried under one, in the worst part of our story, we nail the living Lord to a tree. Lord have Mercy, Christ have Mercy, Lord have Mercy.

12. burning 4.26.25

she stokes the embers
from their fireplace
and tells her children stories
about the God who shows up
in burning bushes, and introduces
himself with a riddle, "I am who I am"
they ask giddy, like a game of
hide-and-seek, "where is He then,
can we see Him in the fire too?"
and she says "He is here, He is there,
He is where I am, and where you are."
and the dry wood of hickory and faith
catches aflame once more.

13. this journey is too much for you. 4.26.25

the prophet collapses
under the only broom tree
in this forsaken desert
his final premonition
that he desires to become dust
like Adam-in-reverse, his call
failed, his message unheard,
death would be more gentle,
than the straining-after-tomorrow
so he prays, "if you are God,
let me die." and he closes his eyes
to find out if heaven's real -
but his eyes open in dawn's
gentle light - wings folding-unfolding
around him, like a mother's caress
to a waking child, but like an infant
he is stubborn, and demands his rest
even as he scoops cakes of bread
into his mouth and lets water
flow down his cheeks calming
his parched lips - he finds the mountain
where Moses found the living-God
in a burning-bush, and prays once more
that if God won't let him die,
will he at least speak -
and the wind howls, and the storm
stirs, and the ground thunders,
and God's-voice murmurs gentle,
a coo-like lullaby to Elijah's anger,
"there's more for you to do my son,
but you won't be alone."
and the wind sets him aright,
and the ravens hold out bread,
and the trees point him home,
and God walks with his weary child.

1 Kings 19

14. Absalom, Absalom - stones in my pocket 4.26.25

My grandfather carried burdens heavy as stones,
like David, maybe he didn't know which ones
were weapons to load a sling,
and which were weights against a heavy heart
but children have a way of inheriting
even the hidden things fathers carry
my hands have traced these memories
and wondered what we're holding them for.

Absalom will die in every version of scripture,
I've tried to rip these pages out of my Bible, but
there he is again; hung by his hair in the oak's embrace,
I can't watch, but I'll carry his story eyes-closed
wondering if he is held by the wounds of old wars,
or the debts of fathers paid by sons, and
when will we stop carrying all these heavy things.

David cried his name until it bled into the air,
wishing he could take his place instead upon the cruel tree.
But we don't choose our memories or our inheritance
even if we close our eyes, field stones show up in pockets;
pieces of the earth, weighing us down until we listen
or scream. I trace the lines in my hands, feel the inherited scars,
the familiar grooves of these rocks I've been born to carry until I die
or choose to hide them in the hands of my children.

Maybe we all hang somewhere between the earth and sky,
tangled in roots reaching back, heavy-laden
waiting for the pierce.

2 Samuel 18

15. growth



PLAIN TEXT

Spoiler

the wonderful thing about buying a house in late-summer is you might wake up one morning in early-spring to find your house also comes with stray tulips. the wonderful thing about falling in love gradually is you might wake up one morning in early-spring to realize you're not broken, and he's not leaving.

16. one day i will return to the beginning 4.26.25

1. one day i intend to row a canoe to the origin of the missouri river, and find out where all the hurt came from, what poison in the water seeped into our roots and taught us to drown each other, instead of learning how to swim. i believe if i could find where it began, i could begin again. after-all, if families are trees, then there must be a seed.

2. when i was a child, we planted a cherry-blossom tree in our front yard, over the place where we had removed an ancient spruce tree. that was the day i began to believe reincarnation is not experienced in the body, but in the soil. and i'm still coughing up dust, from mines four generations back, i have not forgotten what it feels like to be buried alive, and i have spent my life digging graves to look for forgotten roots.

3. we are not so different, you, i, and the ancient tree - we're dying, we're poisoned, we're only here for a thread of time's tapestry, and yet, won't every blade of grass grown from this field for the rest of eternity know my name in how it learns to breathe, doesn't every wave belong to the tide, doesn't every grain of sand remember the ocean - you are everything, but only as far as memory stretches.

4. one day i will find the end of the river. don't you know veins, roots, and rivers all bend the same way, turning back towards home. i will walk in and make myself at home, turning out the dirt from my shoes, and we will begin talking like i'd never been gone, like you never left. you'll tell me that supper's ready, and that the rain's coming, i'll tend to the fireplace, and tell you all about my day. in the evening, we'll lay down outside and make shapes out of stars, and when the rain starts we'll just let the river flood over our bodies, until we are carried back home.

17. swimming lessons 4.26.25



PLAIN TEXT

Spoiler

i learned as a child how to swim, i assume because drowning isn’t inevitable, but oceans are, and rivers move fast, and the sea isn’t gentle.

18. hope so 4.26.25

i know that we are teetering
on the broken edge of tomorrow
where every day seems to be all sun-rise
and light and sun-rise again;
and every flower blooming new,
i know that i should temper my expectations
because my fatal flaw is i'm always hoping
a little too much, but maybe
this time i'm right.