the red trees

In my neighborhood the red trees have appeared one at a time, as if they have been taking turns, waiting for their predecessor to die. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the trees believed in reincarnation and this was their way of exhibiting that doctrine--or at least the pre-existence of respectful souls.

The first red tree appeared in the park, right next to the children’s playground, as if to mark the beginning of the end of summer, wanting to go out in a flourish.

A homeless friend on my corner named Tommy pointed out the second one to me. It was over on Monticello. He walked me over to it and waited while I photographed it. Like Tommy, the tree had already shed half its leaves, approximating mid-life, yet still possessing flourish and spotty remembrance. It was Tommy’s birthday that day and I suppose it was the tree’s, too.

Today I saw the most beautiful red tree I can recall all my life. It wasn’t the biggest red tree, but it was the most vivid, deep and dense in crimson. I thought, “If God is a woman, I’d swear She’s wearing bright lipstick today and planting a full-of-life kiss on me right now through that thar tree.”

I passed those lips in a blink today, but they managed to catch my skin in that brief moment. That was all it took. I didn’t even go back because who can stand such intense desire for more than a minute, eh? It’s like to kill ya.

Reincarnation, nothing; resurrection is what you call it.

Thank you, God, for your red trees.