#birch - Hello Poetry

The expanding stillness A frozen wood Silver boughs stock still Planted in snow barely stir A moment so slow it has stopped Perfect clarity living silence The invincible perigee of now

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Mar 24

Mar 24, 2026 at 8:55 PM UTC

Bower

Birch 2

The expanding stillness A frozen wood Silver boughs stock still Planted in snow barely stir A moment so slow it has stopped Perfect clarity living silence The invincible perigee of now

7

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.

0

Feb 18

Feb 18, 2026 at 5:00 PM UTC

badwords

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.

62

A warm wind touched my face. I walked out into the open space, I saw a blurry, fading horizon. Somewhere, you are, I am here, after a sleepless night, Writing another reflection, Tired like an empty battery. I do not like the masks that shout. The fight over who is right. I do not want an analysis. I touch the bark of the tree, I hug the birch with my arms. I see its white pages, Written with irregular lines, Torn, fluttering in the wind, Which I cannot read. Her eyes look straight into me, They understand – How well they understand me. The rustle of leaves lessens the tension. Autumn will come soon, The summer wind whispers to me: This country, this language, These people, these doubts. This is not blind luck, This is your blessing, Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart, Falling hair, joy when relief comes, Crying into a pillow – So as not to disturb another’s dreaming About the so-called reality. Bare feet touch the ground. I tread carefully on the edge of worlds, To be both here and there With my integrity. I am everything and nothing. I am gestures, epilepsy, The belief that I see human thoughts, Inconsistent with what they say. Blue, sun, and somewhere you. How good that you stayed. When everyone was saying: She is different, She talks to ghosts. You stayed, showing me Your true face.

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Aug 11, 2025

Aug 11, 2025 at 12:27 PM UTC

Agnes-de-Lodz

White Birch

A warm wind touched my face. I walked out into the open space, I saw a blurry, fading horizon. Somewhere, you are, I am here, after a sleepless night, Writing another reflection, Tired like an empty battery. I do not like the masks that shout. The fight over who is right. I do not want an analysis. I touch the bark of the tree, I hug the birch with my arms. I see its white pages, Written with irregular lines, Torn, fluttering in the wind, Which I cannot read. Her eyes look straight into me, They understand – How well they understand me. The rustle of leaves lessens the tension. Autumn will come soon, The summer wind whispers to me: This country, this language, These people, these doubts. This is not blind luck, This is your blessing, Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart, Falling hair, joy when relief comes, Crying into a pillow – So as not to disturb another’s dreaming About the so-called reality. Bare feet touch the ground. I tread carefully on the edge of worlds, To be both here and there With my integrity. I am everything and nothing. I am gestures, epilepsy, The belief that I see human thoughts, Inconsistent with what they say. Blue, sun, and somewhere you. How good that you stayed. When everyone was saying: She is different, She talks to ghosts. You stayed, showing me Your true face.

46

The birches are called silvery white, yeah, language -- can be very poor.

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Apr 25, 2024

Apr 25, 2024 at 3:43 AM UTC

Zywa

[ The birches are called ]

The birches are called silvery white, yeah, language -- can be very poor.

3

The birch watches me with a purely divine look -- of generous eyes.

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May 30, 2022

May 30, 2022 at 4:05 AM UTC

Zywa

[ The birch watches me ]

The birch watches me with a purely divine look -- of generous eyes.

3

Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds Calm flat lakes vacate Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken Thick conifers multiplied for miles The mountain side tipped with ice Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old Some unfurnished whilst others glow

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Feb 23, 2020

Feb 23, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC

PoeticTetra

Ballyshannon to Cavan

Ivy climbs gnarled knotted trunks Darker lines and streams divide where white wool digs below tufts of heather and tall tipped reeds Calm flat lakes vacate Pale hues of birch become rocky barren lands of moss and brown broken bracken Thick conifers multiplied for miles The mountain side tipped with ice Houses change like the hedgerow from new to old Some unfurnished whilst others glow

8

You woo me deep into the ecstasy of your pristine chasteness... where dry leaves of Aspen and Beech and Birch sussurate to the music of a lazy breeze, where Hummingbirds **** in frenzy nectar from the orange glees of the flame-of-the-forest trees, where Hawthorns lure the breeze to weave its vibrance in their domes of green glory, where shrunken streams bask in their white pebbly flourish. Like an enchantress, you lure me to the depth of your rapturous bliss! To say farewell, my heart pains. I leave a beat of my heart to ramble with the roving breeze perennially in your alluring meadows!

0

Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC

the-mystique-trail

A beat of my heart I leave behind

You woo me deep into the ecstasy of your pristine chasteness... where dry leaves of Aspen and Beech and Birch sussurate to the music of a lazy breeze, where Hummingbirds **** in frenzy nectar from the orange glees of the flame-of-the-forest trees, where Hawthorns lure the breeze to weave its vibrance in their domes of green glory, where shrunken streams bask in their white pebbly flourish. Like an enchantress, you lure me to the depth of your rapturous bliss! To say farewell, my heart pains. I leave a beat of my heart to ramble with the roving breeze perennially in your alluring meadows!

21

pale birch trees stand tall long shadows seep into night lumberjacks slumber

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Oct 26, 2017

Oct 26, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC

richard-grahn

Pale Night

pale birch trees stand tall long shadows seep into night lumberjacks slumber

3

Moe took a gulp from the jar while Andy tried to spit out the tar Pincho looked at them and says if prez knows your bitter ways Moe filled himself and fell asleep Andy crept out to the deep Pincho didn't think of such loss scratching on wood to sharpen claws Moe keeps mumbling a sleepy chant then Andy dug himself in the sand so Pincho left out to the walk tracing his path with tail's stroke he released the chain, widely opened the door and started up dancing to the birch and more

0

Apr 13, 2016

Apr 13, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC

aname

birch water

Moe took a gulp from the jar while Andy tried to spit out the tar Pincho looked at them and says if prez knows your bitter ways Moe filled himself and fell asleep Andy crept out to the deep Pincho didn't think of such loss scratching on wood to sharpen claws Moe keeps mumbling a sleepy chant then Andy dug himself in the sand so Pincho left out to the walk tracing his path with tail's stroke he released the chain, widely opened the door and started up dancing to the birch and more

14