Basidiomycetes

The giving tree stood tall in spirit, even without fruit

Without leaves, branches, or the canopy to shade

Those it loved.

It stood tall in its own way, like olden things do,

An homage to the brevity of existence

Even as a stump.

I try.

I try to be the century-old maple,

Stoic and steady, with bark hardened

By wind as cold and sharp as glass.

I’m buying time for a disease inside of me,

The anthracnose nips at the greenery of leaves –

I am trying to be tall and unwavering.

They ask:

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one

Is around to hear it,

Does it really make a sound?

I ponder:

If a dream is driven to the cliff at the end of the mind’s eye

And at the precipice, it stands still

Weighed down by self-awareness

Will its descent be any faster?

Will I have any solace in the dream being buried as a story

As unremarkable as it may be

But incomplete, unheard, nonetheless.

The stump of the giving tree still gives

As much as I may only wonder the fruit that it bore

Or the cool shade against my face, shielded

By leaves long-gone.

Who else sat here, their lunch on their laps,

And questioned the same?

Did the giving tree fall by fungus, by pathogenic prophecy?

Or was it our own doing,

Having ripped the pages out of another book

To write our own?

I would like to plant giving trees for my children

So that perhaps, when they rest against sturdy trunks

My memory may linger in the respite.

There is promise intertwined in beginnings and ends

In unspoken sequel

Submitted as part of the 2025 Humanities and Healing Event.

By Michelle Chin