Poem: My Grandmother's Mulberry Tree

"Moerbeiboom" by Vincent van Gogh

I don't remember learning

to climb my grandmother's mulberry tree,

or the first time I sat in her boughs

with a book.

I can't tell you how many of her berries

stained my lips and my hands,

or how many of sets of silkworms

ate her leaves.

I don't know how old she was,

how many rings were hidden in her trunk,

or how many games we played in her branches

and her shade.

I don't remember the last time I climbed her;

if I thought I was too old to climb trees

or if I simply didn't realise it was the last time,

and thought there would be a thousand more climbs.

No one climbs my grandmother's mulberry tree now.

Someone who didn't hide in her branches,

or try to touch the sky before jumping to the grass,

or eat ripe mulberries straight from the tree,

who didn't hear the echoes of children's laughter in the shade—

someone didn't even care to count the rings

when the chainsaw was done.

I never climbed another tree quite like that one.