Some are meant to climb trees—I suppose—when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. I meant to climb this tree (as so often before) and peer
out between leafy spyres, what dire distress it was to see studious insects bout their business,
too busy to disturb. Instead settled among the short hairs of summer sod, soaking in sap splinters &
cinder soil until the sun sauntered past the skyline and we were alone. The tree and I
a port of my soul settling deeper still to this spot where I’ll leave her. Neither of us ready to go.
Her roots more literal, of course, but mine just as sturdy, we would part; But I would
plant the seeds of my sincerity in such a space as to grow between the bows
to drown myself in sunlight and keep right where I left off, a bookmark of my better days.
What Happened in the Tree
High above the reaching hands of a hopeful evening
With limbs and joints tensed about the branches of weathered wisdom
Is the makings of a fairytale, wrapped up with a bit of string.
Untie the bow, but be ready to catch the pieces as they fall, for
Gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulls grace ground ward.
But fear not the bitter cold or coarse bark, biting at fingers
We are pillow propped, suspended in smoke-puffs of silence,
In a moment, in a heart-beat: I would tell you anything in that tree
Or anywhere you would have me. If only you would have me.
This muddle, where a hand might pull away tough skin, well-worn facades,
and peer through the scattered branches,
Is all falling now.
Falling as you
prepare to leap.
In an attempt to
save the moment,
catch the pieces
of a splintered
fairytale, our skin
Shamed. Your voice
is punishment enough.
Just go. Leave me here.
Let the pieces fall.
Let them all fall.
No heart of mine wanted a fairytale.
No great love affair ever took place in a tree.
It was a foolish girl who thought she could climb to the top and find happiness.
With gravity—the enemy of slow progress—pulling at her heels with a bit of string. –ECW
Poem 2 Edited – Poem 2 Original
written in the back of a book just recently tapped, about our tree
Some are to climb trees–i suppose–when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. i meant to climb this tree (as i have
1000 times) and look upon the leafing; the hairline sap splinters– below. but no.
the ants among her too studious to disturb and instead settled among
the short hairs of the in between spaces. not branches, not roots. in between:
a compromise of the all seeing & unseen. some mortal spaces where I can
devote the hour between four and five to the quick slap of a turned page,
a passing dog, a frisbee, and the optimistic flatulence of a tuba in the music building.
Bare feet bare minds–rooting in hopes that below in the unseen,
untapped soil of the wide earth our toes might intertwine…
Poem 85 Revised – Poem 85 Edited
tree time in just a few days
Fingerpads and fingerprints
Rest wrinkled in weaving fibers of
Come away come away
Come away with me
Up up… with straining, buckling
Joints to climb.
Push up. Up.
Come up. Come up.
Come away with me.
Your hands and my hands
Will follow the same ladder up.
You will climb and I will follow.
I will follow you.
You and I and weaving protests
Groaning murmurs from this tree
You and I will ascend upon him
Come away come away.
Come away with me.