Conditions

How easy it is to be
needlessly cruel
in a time
when greater kindness
is needed
at all points
on the path

Branches diverging
from the trunk
yet even
unseen fingers
reach out
grasping the dirt

If only I could fly
There would be no tree
No branch 
That would be unexplored

Bareness

Season of bare branches
And frigid waters

Fruits have long been picked
Or fallen to the ground

Dead leaves are now hidden
Or swept away by wind

Nature sleeps soundly
As we scurry through cold

Fire as both death and life
We carry on

Leaves Speaking

The leaves are restless
and have begun to speak in waves.

Are they speaking to the Sun?
Is there an urgent message for me?

I'm not sure. I am listening,
hoping to decode an ancient tongue. 

underwater

Leaves rustled and did their best 
impression of ocean waves.

I closed my eyes
and couldn't tell the difference. 

Don't Write Back

if you are busy
but do let me know
how things are.
If I call
please know
it is because
I can't remember
the last time
I heard your voice.
If I ask
if you are free
anytime soon
it is because
I miss you
and wish to see
you. I know you
are busy
and I've already
said that
but I do. Should
I keep missing you?
Did we grow a
part without
saying anything?
Without feeling
it happen?
A weed is growing
where the roots
of a tree have
cracked the concrete
in front of my home.
I do not step on it.
I do not pull it out.

The tree cannot live without its roots.

Colours of Motley

She felt joy in the arms of the tree.

It's branches a perfect place for shade,

a comfort no talking mouth could offer.

Dressed in bright motley, her smile grew

to cover that which the motley could not.

Employed by no King or Court, instead,

whim was indulged. The branches of her 

tree was the only home she knew. So it went

time after time, alternating between comfort

and joy. What of the pests feeding from 

the fruit of the tree? Holding its fruit in her

hand she found it ripe with decay. Barely 

visible feet crawling within and without.

She reached for another, and another,

and another, only to find the same face

of decay. The colours of her cheeks

became streams converging at her chin.

Poor tree, poor me  she thought.

Poor, tree, poor me. 

She pulled buckets upon buckets

of water from the well and poured them

over the fruit, the branches and leaves

hoping to stop the approaching pestilence.

Her arms burned with pain, the muscles

unaccustomed to this strain. She collapsed

and fell into a damp sleep at the base 

of the tree. The water began to overwhelm 

the roots as the dirt flooded. Slowly,

they began to decay out of sight.

When she awoke, the leaves and fruit

surrounded her, the trunk dying.

city trees

Trees cannot be caged by mere concrete

or iron bars. They do not recognize 

the power we ascribe to each 

as absolutes. Pavement will crack

and jut from odd angles as roots

spider throughout without regard

to our conceptions or concerns.