APRIL 13: R.A. Garber
I SEE FROM MY BED
the tree i see from my bed beckons
me each daybreak to breathe in
my life to come, and breathe out
memories that cling like leaves.
troublesome hangers on, some. others
thought dead, burgeon anew, then
clutch me for dear life and i say i
will never forget. but at last they go
for good before i know it. i see
the leaves die many small deaths ahead
of the tree, a hybrid poplar, its life
brief as trees go, foliage vanished
before twenty. yet woodpeckers ransack
the trunk for bugs and worms, and maybe
even hollow out homes on the far side
not visible from my window. crows
congregate in its branches. an eagle pauses
on a crosswise sprig at the peak before
winter gales hurl twigs then branches
into a pile of bones below. now the core
is stripped bare, even. i long thought
the tree too complicated to sketch
but now i think i could have the patience
for it, just three arms stretching up, still.
finally a sole line points to the sky
as if to say now at last you have shed
memories enough to discern the point
of life. now then, write your memoir.
R.A. Garber pursues her passions for poetry, photography, and art in rural Maple Leaf in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. Formerly an art therapist, she recently retired as editor of the Townships Sun magazine and has published memoir and poetry in several anthologies, chapbooks, magazines, and other media. She has written a book of haiku, One More Day (Yarrow Press, 2024), and a chapbook of haibun memoir, Rhubarb & Rachelanne (ArtsUnaean, 2025).