Byron, your poem captures a deeply moving contrast between the careless trust of youthful brotherhood and the quiet grief of watching that shared foundation fragment. The imagery of red-stained lips turning into untasted cherries on broken ground powerfully conveys the heartbreak of a loved one's declining mind, yet your ending finds a poignant resilience in choosing to consciously cherish sweet memory.
As usual, Dennis, you caught the message of this work. My brother has lost 90% of his remembrance, and his ability to grab those once easily captured limbs and fruit. As hard as it is to watch and see, my (our) only comfort is memory of those high times in that cherry tree. Thanks for reading, and for the comment.
this put me in mind of a sermon I once gave at my church. Here's the excerpt that your poem brought back to me:
At the age of nine or ten, I had a favorite climbing tree behind our house. It was an oak that stood about thirty-five or forty feet high, and I knew every major branch all the way to the top. During the summer, I'd climb it a couple of times a week, going up until the smaller branches would support my weight only if I spread out, belly down, to let them cradle me. Then, I'd lie there and look out over the fields across the railroad tracks that bordered our property. I could see an irrigation windmill and farmhouses, and I'd hear all the country sounds that were somehow less vivid on the ground: The constant buzz of insects, dozens of different bird songs, and the far away whoosh of occasional truck traffic out on the highway.
And as I rode the branches as they swayed languidly in the wind, the bells from St. Irene's would chime like a melodic counterpoint to this incredible symphony that I was the only audience to—and I felt connected to everything in a way that I wouldn't understand as holy until I was much older and had the conceptual framework to put it into words.
Byron, your poem captures a deeply moving contrast between the careless trust of youthful brotherhood and the quiet grief of watching that shared foundation fragment. The imagery of red-stained lips turning into untasted cherries on broken ground powerfully conveys the heartbreak of a loved one's declining mind, yet your ending finds a poignant resilience in choosing to consciously cherish sweet memory.
As usual, Dennis, you caught the message of this work. My brother has lost 90% of his remembrance, and his ability to grab those once easily captured limbs and fruit. As hard as it is to watch and see, my (our) only comfort is memory of those high times in that cherry tree. Thanks for reading, and for the comment.
Hey, By--
this put me in mind of a sermon I once gave at my church. Here's the excerpt that your poem brought back to me:
At the age of nine or ten, I had a favorite climbing tree behind our house. It was an oak that stood about thirty-five or forty feet high, and I knew every major branch all the way to the top. During the summer, I'd climb it a couple of times a week, going up until the smaller branches would support my weight only if I spread out, belly down, to let them cradle me. Then, I'd lie there and look out over the fields across the railroad tracks that bordered our property. I could see an irrigation windmill and farmhouses, and I'd hear all the country sounds that were somehow less vivid on the ground: The constant buzz of insects, dozens of different bird songs, and the far away whoosh of occasional truck traffic out on the highway.
And as I rode the branches as they swayed languidly in the wind, the bells from St. Irene's would chime like a melodic counterpoint to this incredible symphony that I was the only audience to—and I felt connected to everything in a way that I wouldn't understand as holy until I was much older and had the conceptual framework to put it into words.
Thanks for the reminder. :)
Tony
Lovely but painful metaphor watching your bro's neural branches break. Cherish the cherries.