This Tree by Paul Hostovsky

Image | Lucas George Wendt

This Tree

 

I never noticed this tree before.

Was it always here? 

Look how huge it is. Even the upper branches  

as thick around as grown men--

strongmen in a circus with thigh-thick arms 

holding up the canopy. You can’t

miss this tree, and yet I think I’ve been missing it 

for years, driving past it on my way to work

without seeing it. Now my car is

running quietly over there where

I pulled over because this tree 

was standing here where I never

saw it. I see it now though. I see it all

now: How I couldn’t see before because

of the understory--all those stories I was telling myself

were true. All the grasping and the wanting

and the dying. But now I think

there must have been something dead inside of me

if I couldn’t see this tree. It’s so

beautiful I want to die. I want to live 

differently. I want to take this tree 

back to my car, back into my life, keep it 

always in view. But of course that’s impossible. 

That would be as impossible as this tree itself

being here and yet not being here.

Which is why I can’t stop staring at it.

(From Paul’s book, Late for the Gratitude Meeting, Kelsay Books, 2019)

© Paul Hostovsky

Paul Hostovsky

Paul Hostovsky’s poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.

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