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I went to the edges. I crossed them. I did not fall. Cities opened, closed. Rooms filled, emptied. My voice returned to me approved. I mistook that echo for necessity. I have said what I wanted. Wrong. Right. Unapologetic. There is no summit left that does not require blood for spectacle. I will not manufacture war to feel ascent. I imagined a jury. Faceless, patient. Waiting to decide if my days counted. The benches are empty. Dust holds the light. No one is coming. Good. I withdraw the case. Significance is not a vote. It is alignment. The wind that carried me has thinned. It does not offend me. I was never air alone. I place my hands against the white bark. Paper skin. Dark slashes. A script I cannot read. The birch does not argue. It does not travel. It does not seek another horizon. It stands at the edge of fields weathering what arrives. Its agency ends at its bark. Inside— rings tightening, years compressing without applause. I do not need another peak. I need ground. If no one names it history will not collapse. If no one counts the rings the tree does not wither. I remain. White against the sky. Unremarkable. Unmoving. Free.
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Feb 18
Feb 18, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC
Birch Without Witness
I went to the edges. I crossed them. I did not fall. Cities opened, closed. Rooms filled, emptied. My voice returned to me approved. I mistook that echo for necessity. I have said what I wanted. Wrong. Right. Unapologetic. There is no summit left that does not require blood for spectacle. I will not manufacture war to feel ascent. I imagined a jury. Faceless, patient. Waiting to decide if my days counted. The benches are empty. Dust holds the light. No one is coming. Good. I withdraw the case. Significance is not a vote. It is alignment. The wind that carried me has thinned. It does not offend me. I was never air alone. I place my hands against the white bark. Paper skin. Dark slashes. A script I cannot read. The birch does not argue. It does not travel. It does not seek another horizon. It stands at the edge of fields weathering what arrives. Its agency ends at its bark. Inside— rings tightening, years compressing without applause. I do not need another peak. I need ground. If no one names it history will not collapse. If no one counts the rings the tree does not wither. I remain. White against the sky. Unremarkable. Unmoving. Free.
https://hellopoetry.com/poems/5257492/bark
#birch
badwords
Written by
badwords
Feb 18
Feb 18, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC
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