When I was a bit younger
there were exponentially more trees
that seemed worth looking at,
setting aside a whole afternoon to see them
from different angles
& painted
in the varying palettes of the most
transformative, gradual shift of spring days.
Alone. Accompanied. In company, but alone.
To touch it and love it in the touches, I'd wonder how
it celebrated birthdays
& the kind of person it would be
& if we'd have anything to talk about
& know that we wouldn't.
I am just a dumb kid, but i will have it:
the patience of heart to understand
and be traumatised
by its past and future.
It grows & grows in spite of all who loved & abused,
chooses to shade the heads of something beautiful.
It grows and grows to be useful to the nest, the burrow.
In crisis it stands
powerless to the decisions of cutters who mistake its silence
for ambiguity.
They've never had it, infectious in their nightmares like I have,
each bough strung with a noose
seeking our abundant earth,
earth that starved, dangling feet
crave hungrily but never reach.
Or in dashed breath dreams of lovers
spilled at its roots,
sucked into the architecture
& forever petrified
as living, wooden, cry of pleasure.
In crisis it stands,
not wearing any clothes
& abstaining the vote
Weary of the machine
unable to make the music
or eat the food