they never talk about the trees
with history so shaped by poetry,
tales of the aesthetic and also
the way in which the light bands
across the delicacy of skin along her neck,

how could they neglect the trees?
the source of which material you deface
litter with your soliloquies and your...
your scrappings of failed attempts to...
how could you not devour them?
with all your grand metaphors and
your passing, blindly romantic drabbles

the pen is mightier than the sword
so turn your weapon towards
your blank canvas battlefield
and write of the trees
revel in the symphony
note the calibre
of such leaves as they thrive
and not just fly but soar
oh, and recall the aching;
the bark can only withstand the wind
for so very long

before the unstoppable force
renders the immovable object

a hopeless nothing on the forest floor

tell me,
if you fell so completely
with not a soul around to witness you
did you ever really fall at all?