Trees
So they grow, like physical memories
of breath; a presence of time unabated
by those who sit in their office clothes
painting the window upon their eyelid;
each second unpassed but lived through.
They wave and dance with ease -
the cleanse of being a tree, so like a child
in every wind. Falling down, they are a compass
to my own destruction; my sliced finger,
a circle of histories I could not erase.
I am jealous of the trees; their bi-polar
is structured, measured -
brightly coloured imp giggles
when spring desires, grazed knuckles
when winter allows. Medicate
and those swirling trees make
short of my lungs; thick airs
where clouds will sharpen
staining my grey flank, acid green.
Where would I be without you?
What would I do without you?
Nodding along with my every whim -
to fall from your great height,
admiring
your sturdy crucifix?
Noetic-fret!
Tue 30th Jul 2013 01:51
I have often wondered what it would be like if trees could walk. Where would they go when they hear the sound of the chainsaw dragging them down. Perhaps like many of us, they would simply want to leave this world, where destruction seems to be the main occupation of those with the power to do it. One day, perhaps in my 'other' world I may soon reach, I hope to be in a wood, not just wood, but a forest surrounded by all manner of trees and wildlife, for that, is what's so missing from mine and many peoples lives.
Brilliant stuff Marianne, as always.
mike
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