The Trees Are Lit
A poem by Lisa Ashley

The Trees Are Lit
after Linda Pastan

The trees are lit
from within like Sabbath candles
illuminating the cherry blossoms
like pink glassy babies
unaware that they will soon be messy
on the branch, the ground,
blossoms turned to petals fallen
to disappear into earth,
food for glowworms like underground fireflies
finally blinking out as I will tonight,
nightgown soft as those petals
slipped over my head, stroking my tired body.

I let go of the day’s poison, the ugly thoughts,
that dragged me down.
I unhook in this nighttime,
blank my mind, calm my thoughts,
lull into half-sleep time,
hoping hidden thoughts will rise,
horoscope of hope for tomorrow,
a day of good words,
something to work with.

Throw away the knife of negativity
that cuts to the bone of my poet self.
Let me rise up fresh to decipher
and imagine the day’s gifts,
allow my soul to flow for the hours
until the moon rises behind the madrone tree
sails up and across the sky,
a globe to hold the free goldfinch
swooping back and forth all day,
from sun to shadows, feeder to fountain.

The sky is still above me,
morning sun will soon set it ablaze,
torching the trees again,
lighting all the prayer candles.

About the Author:

Lisa Ashley, MDiv, (she/her), is a 2021 Pushcart Prize nominee. She descends from survivors of the Armenian Genocide and has listened to, and supported, incarcerated youth for 8 years as a chaplain. Her poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, The Healing Muse, Thimble, Blue Heron Review, Last Leaves, Snapdragon, and others. She writes in her log home and navigates her garden on Bainbridge Island in a constant state of awe. 

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