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If you'll come with me,
I can bring you to the sea,
Show you the waves as they dance to the sand,
Wander through the dunes,
Winding like the winds in beach birch branches,
We can live like they do on TV,
Swear our hearts to each other,
Like I got down on my one knee.
I can vividly imagine a life with her, right up to my final breath.
Who's knocking at my window?
I hear you while I sleep!
Who dare disturb my own slumber!
Oh, it's only the birds,
The wind and the bare trees.
Still, I resent my bed,
The world wakes us for a reason.
Every startle in the night, every knock with no one there, and every call of your name in an empty room is the very soul of this world trying to keep you on the right path. You just have to listen.
I don't mind meandering,
But I prefer it with you.
For the river doesn't travel alone,
It's swept up in the beauty of the trees,
Or the glassy grains of the sand.
Whether our path is wavy and wanders,
Or straight to the point.
I will find a certain joy,
In each meandering moment I share with you.
She
The night is born prematurely,
Becoming one in blistering winds,
The dark crawls,

And the snow falls.

The gallant wings of beauty,
Besieged by winter's bellows,
Left to death as the crow calls,

And the snow falls.

The lonesome oaks tremble,
Bare in the white of creeping cold,
Creaking as they are raked by squalls,

And the snow falls.
Not a lot today.
Bald cypress leaves droop
Somber caress from spring wind
Geese honk overhead
I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.
Wind whispering through my skeleton,
They tell lies to the young sprouts of the forests.
Convince them that not only is life a foolish game,
It's a foolish game they're losing.
An old soul, I stood tall watching poets come,
Then I began to wilt as I watched poets go.
The eyes that once admired my growth,
Turned to fingerprints and memory.
My bark is riddled with stories,
All the lovers that made a promise on my skin,
Leaving the now grim scars of foreshadowing.
I am a dead tree,
Hallowed branches waving in solemnity.
If you listen to the voice of the fading oaks, they will teach you things no soul will ever teach you again.
The
Ever
Green
Trees still
Amaze me like
Nothing else ever has
They're just so entrancing
Dancing
I like trees ->>
nicole Feb 6
10-23-24   5:27pm

forgiveness does not grow on trees
it grows as a tree
and takes its time

it might take an eternity
or feel like one, at that
but once the seed is planted
it will grow
and sprout
just give it time


leaves will emerge
branches will take a much-needed stretch
and your heart will heal
My young, eager eyes lapped up the forest as fervently as they could.
Novelty was what they hungered for, as my axe did for ****** wood.
It was fresh. New.
The Pacific Northwest wasn't ready for us.
Wife and I moved out here a couple months ago with the promise we'd make a good, honest living out here.
Y’know, these trees are so beautiful… real shame we’ve gotta cut ‘em all down for a whole lot less than what we was promised.
Progress… for what?
I don't think I wanna do this anymore…
but I must.
Onto the next tree. Hope this one's easier to cut down.
Written on 2025-02-05.

This piece is set in the perspective of a young logger, who moved to the Pacific Northwest in the late 1800s during the Second Industrial Revolution in the United States. It was inspired by an Aidin Robbins video on YouTube about a rainforest in Idaho. I conceived this at the end as I realized as Aidin existentially asked, “what am I doing here [in this forest]?”, I realized that the people who cut down the forest as he showed a log cabin and talked about the loggers, who must have thought the same thing that some of them must have definitely questioned the prospect of chopping down such beautiful trees and irreversibly ruining ecosystems for the sake of profit, striking it rich for what they were told was “a better future”.
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