Some of these children,
speak
and they are as wise, as sages.
They weep, tears,
of inner knowledge
like sap,
from small,
truncated trees.
The way they bleed,
into open pages
frightens me,
and I weep, in return.
I am an aging lady, now...
a bent old willow
that looms, and weeps
over a thriving duck community,
in a shallow pond.
The ducks, don't mind
the saline sparkle,
of discarded leaves
that fall, in bunches,
and cause ripples.
They flap, and float, instead
between fragrant bits,
of soggy,
banquet bread.
They fish, for crumbs,
that drag, along the scum-coated surface,
and quack sonorously,
living happy duck lives.
...But a deciduous, old tree,
like me
has lived its life,
with roots,
crudely spread,
and forced, to grow, beneath
salted, and unsuitable grounds.
she knows...
that wisdom, doesn't come,
gift-wrapped,
and hung, from giving trees.
It's burned, into flesh,
beneath the harnesses,
of armored bark.
An aging lass, like me
can know, at a glance
that they were marked,
by the lightning strikes,
in their infancy.
Their juvenile trunks,
bear more scars,
than tree rings,
and, still...
they reach wooden fingers,
skyward, in surrender,
as the wind, rips
through trembling limbs.
But ponds,
are for swimming,
and ducks, are gonna do,
what dumb, ducks do.
Swim, and forget about
the twisted planks,
harvested,
from immature trees.
Swim, and pay no mind,
to the way, the wood splits,
and then tears.
Swim, and dive.
Dive and swim,
in happy duck fuckery.
...The water's fine, so come on in.