Linoleum checkered floor of maroon and beige stretches before my feet, seemingly for miles. This pulled apart perspective, extending, plays upon my eyes in an undulation of unease. The wait is long and heavy, heaving of such misplacement churns an awkward understanding of how hell's rivers percolate blistering torture. Which line shall I be shuffled to next? If hell does exist, it must resemble Social Services, downtown Camden, New Jersey. Also, it must be designed with the same checkered linoleum floor. I feel it upon the faces of those who wait (impatiently or patiently, yet, truly tested) here with me, that exacting distaste in a maze of cubicles and hard plastic furniture. Maybe, just maybe, it is only purgatory. Only time will tell.

Recently we cut a large holly tree down. It had given access to the roof of a mother raccoon, who burrowed into the attic to begat her progeny. It was sad to see that superior glossy leafed beauty go. Full of blistering red berries, it attracted a multitude of feathered friends, who would be spied from a window near where I would rest. Still, the unwelcome problem of a gang of masked furry bandits, meant the holly could no longer stay.

It was no easy task, falling such an old growth. The tree was at least close to the eaves when the home was purchased nearly twenty years ago. Now it had risen well past the peak of the roof. Though with steadfast ingenuity, and agile elbow grease,  down it came in four large sections. Branches would have been perfect for wreaths and garland, should it have been closer to winter. The trunk, at its base, was ten inches in diameter.

Holly wood is a hard wood and would be perfect for sculpting something unique. I ruminated keeping some to dry for this purpose, and it most certainly would have been saved for the fireplace, had we not the intention of moving and the need of keeping things tidy be present.

This all plays in my head, the purposing of things and such. It is not in my nature to waste. However, all the extra effort of putting things in a proper place for future use, cannot be afforded at this crucial time. Oh hell, now I suppose offering it up to Internet scavenging, would be more ecologically sound. Come and take, please help yourself. The Ad appears on Craigslist Free Stuff.

Hollowness came of lightning strike
long before my meeting
that *****, muscular oak. It was
always that way. I knew no different
of it.

Its charred orifice spoke of
an interloper,
an intruder whose presence
carved fire within,
creating sooty vacuity.

Marvelous survival instinct however,
shown by this tree's greening
each Spring, taught me
perseverance. My own lightning
strikes to be weathered as well,
but perhaps not with as much ardor.

Vehemence and passion can still
live within internal voids.
I have witnessed many furry
and feathered creatures raise brood
from the scarred hole of that oak.
How is it I know this is good?

For a fuzzy feeling of wonder,
still somehow stirs reliance in
desire outside this emptiness.

I see the reflection of light
in the critter's eyes which emerges
from darkness which has kept
it safe. Yet now, hunger encourages
it to roam from its dwelling.

Am I the same?

A bird flies
Nature throws itself to the wind
And all enchanted bodies
Sleep not tonight

Roaring tides of sea took clouds
As chariots deep and light as terror
Or awe at what could be the last
Wink of lightning on chains of evening

I rooted myself to this bushel
And bore the berry, nature told me thus
For life may be as fruit near fallen
Or rotten-putrid, alcoholic mess.

Driftwood sees me early
And I wake when the storm is over
Not me I told, not shaven me
I am wild now, I have seen the cold.

So woe, those days may live again,
But I will take the razor once more
And live as apes may call themselves human
And live as comfortably as I may after all.
Away from the storm,
But not gone.