Some Trees Bleed

SOME TREES BLEED

“Some trees bleed, each spring, it seems,
reaching out for life”, the old man said,
shaking his grizzled head.

“See there?" he asks,
rising, hand upon the boy’s shoulder.
Bright new red glistens silken,
springing forth from each yearning tip.
“It’s quite a sight, don’t you think?” he asks.

“I have seen this many times,”
he tells the boy at his side.
Pointing again, “See there,” he says,
bending near the child.
“See that one there and that one,
touched with tenderbright green.”
Settling back upon the rock
he rubs his hands down his knees.

“You see son,” he tells the boy,
and hugging him close,
“the trees are a bit like people.
Some seem to bloody their fingertips,
yearning and striving toward new life.
To some life seems to come so easily
and with so much grace and ease.”

Looking down at the boy
he added, “Time only will tell which
each of us will be.”

Looking back and forth between
the trees, the boy looks up at the
grayed head near his.
“And which were you, grandpa?” he asks.
Chuckling, the old man rubs the boy’s head,
“I was the red one, my boy. I was the red.”