A Walk on Christmas Day

You call me from a distance

your grand girth and oak branches

stretch closer as each year passes.

Your voice has a new sound

not the playful — come and climb –

but a moan, low and soft.

The fence around you beaten down

an intruder has entered. Now me?

As I move toward you

your arms, open as always,

release the crows.

Our moment.

The earth near your roots is disturbed.

I glide my hand over your rough skin

rest my head there and listen.