The Weeping Sentinel
I am not crying.
You looked at me
and decided that, didn’t you?
Head tilt,
soft voice,
“that tree looks sad.”
I heard you.
I wasn’t always like this.
I used to reach,
strain
for the sky,
like I could hold the sun
if I just tried hard enough.
But time…
Time doesn’t break you.
It settles you.
So now I hang.
Not broken.
Not bowed.
Just aware.
They come here, you know.
Not crowds,
just the quiet ones.
The ones who sit
like they might fall apart
if no one’s holding them.
So I do.
They don’t say much.
But they leave things.
A breath.
A name they won’t speak.
Tears—
and I keep them.
You think rain feeds me?
No.
Truth does.
These branches?
They’re not heavy
because I’m weak.
They’re heavy
because I refuse
to drop
what was trusted to me.
There was a child once
who tried to lift me.
“Come on, tree,” he said,
“you forgot how to stand.”
I let him try.
I’ve seen storms take everything.
Neighbours gone.
Voices gone.
But I’m still here.
Not untouched.
Not fragile.
Still growing.
So don’t call me sad.
Call me
a place.
Sit, if you need to.
Lean, if you must.
Leave it with me.
I have roots deep enough
to carry it,
and branches low enough
to meet you there.
Written in response to an AccessAbility Arts prompt: “The Weeping Sentinel” — a piece exploring what a tree might witness, hold, and remember over time.
Image credit: AccessAbility Arts
