The moment is never broken.
The oak tree is forming its new leaves
upon the old branch.
The hydrangea, piece of dead wood,
has stirred to green again.
She will flourish greater than last time.
The blueprint in her being,
to follow the seasons
and grow.
Whatever happens:
the moment of conception,
bud burst, leaf formation,
the ever renewing perennial shoot.
These are born
out of an unbroken continuum.
God is a tree renewing itself.
We are a mirror reflection.
And this tree,
like the oak outside my window,
is a collection of memories,
of trunk rings and cell reproduction.
Everything building upon a foundation
grounded for an enduring evolution.
And we are a leaf remembering herself:
shape, hue, substance.
And we are a tree evolving,
unfolding
since the very first seed.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
October 2022
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“And who planted the seed?”,
said the seedling
sprouting into green.
The mother plant leant down,
and breathed,
all spring breeze
and rustling leaf,
“He, of whom you’re made.”
~ Ana Lisa de Jong
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everyone has a plan but God.
She just sings.
The wisest fools follow her tears
back to the well of night that breathes us.
There’s trembling in that stillness,
a generous flow from a hollow core
that never heals.
Musk of collapsing melons.
Zest of the last chrysanthemum.
A bad hair day for the caterpillar.
Dapper in black mask and tails,
cedar waxwing glides over the ballroom
of fallen water lilies.
But the berries are gone.
Time to search for a well inside the well,
where darkness sheathes all that will ever shine.
The singing of the world ends here
and begins again, with many other things
too beautiful for this world
until we imagine them in ourselves.
She is alone, yet She loves mirrors.
Her silence pours out music,
chanted names of hidden splendors,
faces of the unborn.
This poem can’t describe the sound.
Words are only shards of that
ripple-shattered looking glass.
Our tears seem to be many,
but the sorrow is one.
A luminous nectar spills
from that droplet of grief, a single tear
in the eyes of all our ancestors.
They gaze from the well inside the well
and their gaze is the beauty of a world
that has not yet been created, gushing
out of the place where we go to pray,
the place where we kiss
before we are conceived,
and Christ is in Mary
like an eternal seed
~ Fred Lamotte
Living Tree Poetry 
As our hydrangeas fade and we contemplate cutting them back… as our beautiful oak sheds some of her leaves, fall approaches.
Your poetry’s timeliness is incredible. As we fade into fall and then winter, you share the joy and the beauty of spring’s renewal. Thank you, dear Ana 💖💖
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Thank you dear Michael, yes, I love the way we are opposites to one another. That way we remember that what situation we find ourselves in, it will change. For every winter spring is coming. I also wrote once that an eternal summer becomes old. We need the change. Bless you abundantly.
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