The Cedar

The old man’s cottage
stood near the western edge
of the valley.

One autumn night,
he woke to a tremendous crash
outside his cottage.

The windows rattled.

Rain struck the roof
like handfuls of gravel.

For a long moment,
he sat upright in bed
listening to the wind
moving through the dark.

But nothing else fell.

By morning,
the storm had passed.

The garden glistened
with rainwater.

Branches and leaves scattered
across the wet grass.

And there,
stretching across his yard,
lay an enormous cedar limb.

It had broken
from the neighbor’s tree
during the night.

The branch was large
and heavy.

He stood quietly beside it
for a long time.

Then he looked up
at his roof.

Still whole.

The windows unbroken.

The old man
placed one hand
against the wet bark
and smiled faintly.

Later that afternoon,
the gardener next door
knocked on the gate.

“We can remove that for you,”
he offered.
“Won’t take long.”

The old man looked again
at the fallen cedar.

Rain still clung
to the dark bark.

“No,”
he said gently.

“I think I’ll keep it.”

The gardener walked back
through the wet grass.

The old man
worked slowly.

First, he cut the great branch
into shorter pieces.

Then smaller ones.

The work took days.

Sometimes he rested
more than he cut.

He shaved away the rough bark
with steady hands.

Smoothed the cracked places.

Studied the grain carefully
before each cut,
as though listening
for something in the wood.

By autumn,
small cedar stools
stood beneath the fig tree.

Several taller pieces
held clay pots
overflowing with herbs.

Near the stone wall,
cedar rounds rested on rocks
where sparrows gathered
each morning for seeds.

The garden smelled faintly
of cedar after rain.

Visitors often admired it.

“What beautiful wood,”
they said.

The old man
would glance quietly
at the neighbor’s towering tree.

The storm
had arrived loudly.

But afterward,
it had left behind
quiet places to sit,
resting places for birds,
and small corners of shade
where none existed before.