There is something fascinating about trees—
about the way they stay rooted to the ground, moving only their fronds
to match the summer breeze, as if they were whispering you a story
that you could hear only if you paid close, close attention. Some
say they contain spirits, a select few say ancestors, others
say mankind's darkest secrets. They don't ebb and flow, waver or
oscillate. They stand. They wait. They don't rush time. They
abide by the seasonal cycles of life and death, loss and gain.
We climb them when
we are young, gleefully
accepting challenges
to stand on their
uppermost boughs.
We sit in their shadows
once we are older,
munching on triangular
sandwiches and
spooning potato salad.
We gash them when we realize they're better dead than living, their flesh worth fires keeping us warm and tables used for reading and writing. We cut roots, so we suffer the gnarly mess of
INGRATITUDE.
YOU ARE READING
How We Speak to the World
PoetryA collection of short poems about humanity, exploring our connection with each other and with the world around us.
