The Walnut at New Clairvaux

Brother William, when asked, remarked
The tree must be old.
Older, at least, than the monk’s
Care of the land; Old enough
To feel the vineyards planted,
Then stripped down, ripped
From the earth in a rage
Of Prohibition, only to be planted
Again in a new century, hopeful.

For my part, I find the tree
Sacred, if only for years
Marked in girth, calloused
Bark etched through time;
Famine and the feast
Squirrels find in the broad
Branched canopy offering
Shelter. What stories are held
For stragglers who wait
On the stone bench long
Enough to hear the creaking
Centuries let loose in
Whispers on the wind?

If the moaning creation
Has prophets, this Walnut
Holding hallowed ground
Through centuries must surely
Speak still those sounds
Which call deeper meaning
From the ordinariness
Of planting vegetables,
Flowers and even trees.