I have a photo that has no colour, of a forest and a black, wet road rolled out as waiting for a presidential visit, that will never come, trees have no vote.
This is not an old forest, the trees, are winter dark with snow on, those near the road, look like dangling youngsters grumpy by enforced idleness;
but there is a hidden passion, snow has thawed around the trunks, intense root touching, and sometimes unwelcome groping is going on.
It isnβt easy to be a tree if one is placed amongst siblings, and its roots canβt touch a loved one, across the road, for the future must be bleak indeed
Yet, trees can take comfort in its versatility It can be pulped and made into voting slips or made into paper on which poems are written. And you call that solace?