Tree House by Lydia Nitya Griffith
There was a path, a trail really
What is the difference between one or the other
Except to say it was a way from the lawn
Into the woods.
That trail was moss covered and framed by briars and weeds
Which are just grasses misinformed homeowners douse in toxins
But no matter, this was wild country
Where native flowers and grasses could be themselves
Free from such discrimination and annihilation
Perhaps that is the difference between country living and suburban
In the country, nature is more greatly respected for being here first
And the alternative is an arrogant entitlement that says where people live,
We reign over all.
So it was that this trail delivered a tree
A magnificent tree that hung off the edge of a cliff
Maybe a twelve foot drop to the beach below
And the river beyond
All framed by thick woods
There was a nest of roots I would crawl into
There I was cradled and hidden from the world
It was me and the tree.
Roots as my roost
And a book as my companion.
I sat just below the line of earth, neither above nor below
If one of my brothers came running to torment me
And rouse me out of my hiding place
I first felt the vibration of their thundering feet
And had enough time to drop my book
Then lowering myself through the tunnel of roots
Like some subterranean creature, a mole or groundhog
I lowered down jungle style along the sandy dirt bluff
To plummet the last few feet
Landing with a thud on the soft hot sand
Then with deer like grace, leap out of sight
Untraceable and invisible, undisturbed and free.
When the coast was clear I’d return to my hidden root roost
And read away the afternoon
Pausing to check the view
The position of the sun to tell time by
The passing of a sailboat heeling into the wind
Or to witness the long line of a great blue heron marking the sky
Then the sudden startle as an osprey hits the water
Rising up with great talons grasping a fish, scales glistening
The scent of river, of hot grass, of wildflowers;
Goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace, cornflower, and yarrow
A bouquet to savour in the vase of nature
Unpicked and left in a tangle of perfect order.
Lost in the jungle of that woods
Tangled roots, velvet moss, and my unkempt braids
A child can fashion home out of just about anything
A cardboard box, a stack of lawn chairs with a beach towel
Or a tree like this tree, a tree with roots cascading down a bluff
Fragile arboreal nest to nestle into
And disappear
Into the vast expanse of a child’s summer sanctuary