The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

Colours mean less to me than
The racing winds of autumn.

But to feel nothing
While dried leaves cascade
From trees that have more stories
Than me or any building
And crunch
Under my worn leather boots
While rich, muddled scent of earth
Pours into my being- filling me
Up with feeling that wraps
Around the heart- tingling
Chest and head
And hair tendrils

But to feel nothing...

Is to find that the
Winds of autumn are
Starting to fade
But even if for a moment I felt them
Even for a moment...
Is all I need to keep searching for them again.

I've heard this somewhere and
i sense it to be true , that
   trees can communicate
in some bizarre language
   and they feel the pain
when we cut them through .

I loved this old crooked tree
that refused to grow straight
with the sky but willed itself
to stretch with the horizon,
limbs resisting what every oak
near it wanted— to kiss the sun.

It had a brother, long since cut down,
its stump never uprooted, ground to chips.
Decades of weeping, trying to caress its kin,
had left it defiantly stunted, a hunchback
to its grief, its refusal to be another proper tree,
limbs desiring earth’s comfort to cloud’s hope.

The tornado swept south and
my old brick house was
left a blasted finger to its whims.
The old crooked tree was uprooted
like all the others oaks, yet granted the mercy
of caressing its waiting brother in its final fall.

My wife spent the time after the uprooting
like all the others after the storm,
dealing with the adjusters, collecting
the ashes, saving the memories that remained.
No thoughts of trees preoccupied her
and I was convalescing from cancer surgery.

Before we moved into a temporary place,
before the winds of rebuilding where beginning,
I asked for a quick drive by to see the damage
because I only ,imagined the destruction
from the aching confines of a hospital bed
and needed to firmly root it to mind and soul.

The reality was a little worse than the imagining.
The roof was gone, only an L of bricks remained.
The PTSD, anxiety, the sheer exhaustion
was already planting in my wife.
I cried for her. I cried for the last sight
of the old tree hugging stump, earth beneath.

The man from the sea
Salty, wind-blown hair
Wood-worn hands from the ships
Eyes to see land along the horizon
Mouth to sing with the voices of the waves
Rocking, iron legs, made for the sea

The man from the trees
Tangled, leaf-filled hair
Calloused hands from climbing
Eyes to see disguises in the branches
Mouth to sing with the melody of the birds
Jumping, strong legs, made for the trees

The man from the sands
Sandy, sun-scorched hair
Nimble hands from the ropes and silky sand
Eyes to see amidst the light from the sun
Mouth to sing with the cat-calls of the burning winds
Moving, steady legs, made for the sands

The man from the grasses
Sweaty, sun-bleached hair
Paper-cut hands from weaving through the blades
Eyes to see danger amidst the weeds
Mouth to sing with the whispers of the rustling stalks
Skipping, quick legs, made for the grasses

The man from the river
Dripping, slicked-back hair
Smooth hands from the flowing water
Eyes to see fish amongst the rocks
Mouth to sing with the sound of flowing river
Slow-moving, quiet legs, made for the river

The man from the mountain
Thick, shadow-covered hair
Hard hands from the heavy stones
Eyes to see distantly from the mountaintop
Mouth to sing with the tumbling rocks
Trodding, stout legs, made for the mountain

The man from the ice
Frozen, ice-cold hair
Blue hands from the frostbite
Eyes to see places where the surface is thin
Mouth to sing with the crackling of the frozen ground
Tip-toeing, careful legs, made for the ice

Someone once said I was a fanatic of escapism
That I would never find peace if I never stopped moving
But let me ask you;
Can you name a creature that doesn't move?

Trees grow
They shake with the wind, and shower all below them with leaves
Further cementing their carved throne as the elders of our planet

Mushrooms, dogs, lizards, fish
I could name creatures and organisms that 'move' for days
I could give you a fact about each of them
And teach you why darwinism has blessed that specific species with its touch

They said I'm an escapist
Someone who runs from trouble and problems
Or maybe from life itself
Or maybe in circles
I say
When you're a pine tree in a green house there is no such thing as escapism

There's drive to live and acceptance of demise
The only two forms of black and white that's even remotely close to the chessboard you're picturing
My drive to live isn't escapism

So when my branches break your windows,
When my canopy and height topples this ceramic plated greenhouse,
Dont you dare say it was an escape attempt.
I didn't escape. I didn't even leave.
I did as a pine tree does
And I Grew.

May the day soothe you and bring you all the strength you need
pour into your being how ever many cups of sweetness are needed to balance out the sour taste

May the day remind you, you are capable of whatever dream, you wish to reach for
that your years have grown your roots, so there is no need to worry; even from afar I can see you’re a tree that can weather storms.

the tree grew in rocky soil -
now its fruit is decaying.
its seeds fell into
the same rocky soil,
sprouting into trees
with the same decaying fruit.

these trees feel the decay.
they know to spread their seeds
where the soil is fertile.
and the resulting trees
will bear ripe fruits
for future generations.