I’d Like to Stay

by Jane E. McCafferty

Tree shadows —
sometimes they’re everywhere in the city —
On the white sun–struck wall of Home Depot
three of them shivered like they knew
I was falling for them.
The littler one might have broken into something
like a tree dance had I more time
more vision.

They were ordinary trees but of course
there is no such thing — the way they can’t help
reaching — so unlike us. The way
they seemed happy in their resignation —
their form so dependent on slow growth.
It’s hard to say anything new about trees
no matter how much you honor them.

I like those pictures of old women living
in tree–houses, their wild hair hanging down.
I always listen hard when people say old women
should cut their hair, and wonder why.
I remember my mother saying so and so
is too old for all that hair. Back then too old
was forty, fifty at the most.

i can’t say I’m strong and looking forward
to being old. I can say being almost old
is where I’d like to stay. Here on this cliff,
not yet a stranger in the mirror, most days,
but with an orchestra of aches and pains
to ignore every morning. Am I saying aging
is a kind of music and expecting you
to believe it?

I can’t remember the last tree I climbed.
I was probably a long–haired child hanging
upside down, lapping up the sky and yelling
Hey You! to passersby, not caring that my shirt
was probably up around my head. That may
be the definition of being truly young.
Don’t think I’ll be doing that again.
Unless I turn into one of those wild bird–women
you see out there on their own —
complete, un–caged. It’s hard for me to tell
what they’re really feeling. One day
soon I’ll have to ask.