Prayer Poem: If My Heart Were a Tree
While wandering through the Paradise Valley Conservation area, I found a tree across a trail. It came at the top of a hill climb and was positioned like a bench for passersby. I noticed it, stepped over, and went on my way. As I continued to walk, I wondered about all the people who stopped to find rest there. I wondered at their lives and began reflecting on my own. At the end of my hike, I returned to the tree, sat, and wrote this prayer poem.
“If My Heart Were a Tree”
Rev. Janelle Kurtz
If my heart were a tree
would its bark lend itself to the moss
so it could reach up and up
to the sun?
Borrowing its softness
to fill its own cracks
that come with strength and resilience?
If my heart were a tree
would its trunk rise to its full height
where it stands:
Bearing equal witness to
every unnatural storm or beautiful becoming
that dares to be?
If my heart were a tree
would you be able to peek inside
and see circles of growth:
The wide rings of childhood delight
emerging through exploration
creating the core that will last?
The tight rings
of years where the count was lost
constricted by fear and grief?
The widest ring that makes you wonder:
What joy exploded there?
What sense of self settled in,
inviting everything else to expand with it?
If my heart were a tree
would its branches be sturdy to climb?
Roomy for creatures to nest?
Supple to give release
to the little ones bounding forth
in their own leaps of faith?
Would they rain their gifts
of fruit and seed with abandon?
Heedless of what ground lies below?
If my heart were a tree
would light dapple through the leaves
in a disco display of life?
Would wind catch in the limbs
making a dance with its own song:
Creaking
Humming
Moaning
Whispering?
If my heart were a tree:
even fallen would it lend itself
as a handheld for the wavering?
A seat for the weary traveler
like the one where I sit now?
Welcoming wayfinders to rest:
Find belonging
in the world
and themselves?
If my heart were a tree
Broken to a stump
would it bear new life?
Fertile till the end?
Even then in death
would its roots still carve their way
through the dark?
Till they reach another:
Creator
Love Itself.
Refusing to be disentangled
from all that is?
Oh, Lord, let my heart be a tree.
