The Dogwood Tree

The Dogwood Tree (A tribute to Mildred Cantrell Parker) It's turnin' brown now, The dogwood tree. Ain't right Still summer. Blight's takin' our dogwoods They say. Like the chestnut, Years ago. Real pity. Hurts too. Been there a long time, This tree. We shaded under her limbs In the summer, Shucked corn, Broke beans. We ate Watermelon, Fresh cornbread, Family meals. Like a mother hen She brooded over us. But she was gentle And let the mountain breeze Cool us. Sometimes she stopped a light rain. In the springtime she gave Blossoms for the hillside. Looked like Easter morning: Thousands of crosses With hearts of red Graced her countenance. Quiet, Loving, Gentle, Hopeful. Now scars, Dead limbs, Twists, Show past pain Not denied Or glorified. Just lived, Integrated. Sometimes the dog, Or a chicken Pauses a while, Or eats a bite. No less dignity. Summer flowers And the woodpile Support her presence Saving for winter warmth In the Appalachian cold. Always giving. Rooted deep In rich mountain soil, She's mothered A veritable community; Dogwoods on the hillside. Mama says it's like snowThe hill covered with white, Broken only by the diversity: Mouhtian laurel, Rhododendron, Azalea, Oak Pine, Maple. She reaches ever upward, Toward heaven. A simple, majestic praise Of her Creator. Her heavenly childrenThe cardinal, The wren, The hummingbird, The robin, Grace her arms, Feed on her fruit, And sing a chorus of praise. The squirrel And his kin Chatter about. Untouched. But yesterday A hawk came by, Saying "goodbye," "God be with ye." They say there's nothing We can do. It's hard And sad. Wonder how she feels. Can't imagine The mountainside Without the blossoms, The sound of life, The loving care. Where will The birds sing, The squirrels play? Can't believe The majestic lady of the moutain Won't always be there To share Her gentle hospitality, Her nurture, Her wisdom, Her winter warmth, Her summer shade, Her deep faith, Her being. But then I think Of her love, Her determination, Her wit, Her joy in spring, Her garden, All those blossomsWhite crosses With red hearts. Resurrection. And hopeThat 's Who she is And will Always be. -G. Keith Parker 32 ...