The Wishing Tree

*Every day I climb the gnarled oak tree,

with a new story in mind, my grandma used to greet.

Rocking chair and chirping crickets creek,

in evening hand shake, they often meet.

*I look down and see my family there.

Sitting on her grandma’s lap,

Brown eyes and curly hair,

One sock on, the other off,

A cool breeze stroking cinnamon cheeks,

While eye lids slip into uninterrupted sleep.

*Great, Great Grandma Gracie whispering,

The songs of old folk, older than she,

Long ago, picking cotton and tobacco,

Beans and rice, collard greens and spice.

The Sun rolling down to touch the ground.

*A home within a home, my own tree,

My grandma cushioned just for me.

The roots go down, curling underground,

Where time and space drink rain-soaked tea,

and worms bring air, where ants often meet.

A world within worlds, says she,

different from you and me,

yet still our wishing tree.

*Grandma says wishes, like bubbles rise,

float, some pop, some squeeze and

sneeze their way, welling up through

my mind and eyes, slipping out with every breath,

reaching up high among the stars,

dancing and winking with every smile.

*So, hope, says she, and reach up high,

for wishes, very much like, to touch the sky,

Dream catcher hoops and lightening bugs linger,

Rest softly on this wishing tree.

*Lean in close, commit to listen,

hold close the promise, fear not your mission,

fly high and beyond. Hug your dreams and wishes

through tears and fears, on through to fruition.