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Flowers of remembrance

It's 33 years ago today...
If you would read this, yonder
in faraway Africa
"a very happy birthday"
I couldn't give you
flowers from our garden
but in my heart I still
remember and cherish
the soundness and intense joy
of when you were born
All memories, like tender
beautiful flowers
today I can call you by your name
"dear Inge"
"a very happy birthday"
yonder in faraway Africa

Mum 13.09.00




Trees die upright

Birds are still sitting on your branches
The wind caresses your bald crown
You're standing so majestic and very upright, yet
the battle has run its course
No silver lake and no future either
slowly everything gets undermined
how can it be that you
are slowly dying away ?

You were beautiful in your fresh spring coat
but I even loved you more in winter
when everything was grey and bald
and you, the silver proud den in our garden
in white or ice, your wintercoat
with here or there once in a while
a spark of light and a ray of sunshine
that's how you contributed to the hope that overcame winter

I haven't counted the years, nor the heights
eight stories high perhaps and only
twenty years young, you looked so strong
and so sure of yourself
Haven't I hugged you enough ? or
thank you enough, or were you just tired
of all that standing up
well, what does it matter
The last few months your silver turned brown,
and all that rests is a bald crown
but also your dead silhouet
I still like

I'd like to thank you for all those years
The joy you gave us
Even if you weren't human
You lived in the heart of our garden
What silent joy brings
Generosity and abundance
Voyage of discovery
Nature and joy of gardening

ria - 2003




Silver fir, 2 years later

Bruised, de-barked, damaged

all over your limbs

You're still there

although soon you will be past

A woodpigeon, silvergrey and round

keeps guard for a little while longer

And basks himself in the sun, generously smiling,

for quite a while

A picture, on your skinny branch

They, well fed

with a nice coat of feathers

And you, how weak you look now

Regularly, birds coming to rest

on your dead skeleton

not a soft, but a willing bed

oh, give it up

Your SOUL has fled

a bit more each year

it hurts

yet there will never be an end

when they chop you down, later, in winter

dug up your roots

a new cycle will start

and in the sky, more horizon will develop

I'll mist you, silver fir of ours !

August 3, 2005 - ria



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