The Zen Tree

All the monsters have moved on
from the dark of my childhood closets
and their hiding places between the
dust bunnies under my bed,
to a house down the street where
they are having a hard time finding work,

save for one tree with big eyes and
a down-turned smile that is
still watching me come and go.

Tree with Eyes

Woody and I go way back --
so far, I used to think we would
always understand each other,
just as a boy who daily lifts
a calf from new-born expects
to someday pick it up, a bull.

But lately, when he scratches
the other side of the door
on a night when the wind is howling
and the rain is slapping the window,
I think about him out in the yard,

spending the centuries
watching the sun rise and set
like a flickering movie running full tilt,

being amused by snails
and turtles whizzing by,

still puzzled why old friends like me
pop in and out, but never stay long.

He is still haunting me as I lie awake,
chewing on the idea this tree
going nowhere fast for so long
is screaming at the top of its arborial lungs,
"I'm falling," and all I hear
is the rustle of its leaves.

Copyright © 2006 Guy Zumpetta