THE OLD DEAD TREE

Helen L. Foster

As I traveled east toward Coolidge
Near Mile Marker one-two-oh
Stood a dead tree by the edge of a field
Which had grown many years ago.

I searched for clues from the grand old tree
Damaged from the monsoon wind.
But it shed no life, not even a sprout
I found nothing, no friends nor kin.

Its branches were white and brittle
Like bones in the desert sun.
Where once were the sight of bright green leaves
Now, I noticed, were none.

How did it ever survive the heat
And the dryness of desert sand?
What kind of tree would be growing
Alone in this desert land?

Was it a maple, an oak or elm?
Definitely not a pine!
Was it mesquite or palo verde
Or some other desert kind?

When did the tree emerge from the soil?
Did the birds make nests in its boughs?
Did it perish in its prime?
Who mutilated its remains and how?

Did it carry any secrets
Of travelers passing by?
Did it welcome the working farmers?
Did it hear the coyote cry?

The tree stands dead near the edge of the field
Where it lived many years before.
But it comes to life once again in the mind
Of the genealogist’s open door.