Before he died
he summoned me,
more than once
like a grandfather.

Whispering gentle
encouragements
to keep going,
keep listening,
to the ancient wisdom
stored in my lower belly.

Sometimes I climbed
up in his gnarled trunk,
the morning sun on my face,
the autumn light shimmering
through his branches.
Greeting the red breasts
wood peckers
blue jays.

I felt his presence in my dreams.
A ghostly reminder
to wake up,
pay attention,
to not fall
back to sleep.

For years
I took him for granted,
this gentle giant —
his canopy my shelter,
his muscular body
my anchor,
his roots
my very own.

Then one day,
when I was out of town,
secure that I wouldn’t see,
the grandfather tree fell.
Leaving a hole in my heart
but also a blessing.