The Tree of Life

My tree is very old.
It can barely produce enough leaves each summer to survive.
Yet it supports a small community of squirrels and birds,
who I feed each day.
When I awake, before my coffee
I run to the back yard door to see
The squirrels who wait there for the assorted nuts and seeds,
I throw to them.
When they see me through the glass
Their tails rise up, they click their mouths
And I could swear they smile though it is hard to see.
They ramble up to the door.
Sit there with tiny paws against their chests.
Wait for their daily fare to be thrown to them.
In the tree Redheaded Woodpeckers pry small bits of suit
From their feeding boxes
And the Cardinals take their small seeds
and adorn the elderly tree with their deep scarlet color.
Little flecks of yellow, the Golden Finches
Decorate the south side of the tree
On another feeder with tiny holes,
Which only their diminutive beaks can fit into.
The tree is old but its residents
Know it is the garden of life for them.
I will miss the tree when it can no longer
Survive the winters which shatter its arthritic branches.
I delight in the many pleasures
It has provided me these last twenty years
Happy for its service.