when one looks upon the shaking leaves of a forest
The poet sees a canvas. The poet sees millions of hands, a dancing woman, the crying breath of spring such as the likes of mournful Persephone
Another one might see, “The wind is picking up today.”
The poet sees a tree. What do they see? I feel it, the aching of its being, the depth of its frosted bones that solve a million answers of the heavens, deep and dark, squirming life that has ancestral songs planted inside its many branches,
Another one might say, “That tree is growing mold. We might need to look at bringing it down.”
I used to draw trees, my father taught me to stretch out many branches, count each leaf
To grow. Stretch. Tumble. Fall
With the trees, tower with the very mountains of our fathers, our earth that is a creature of feminine quality
I used to draw each tree like it was apart of my father. Mother. My beating heart.
The trees see us beyond the realm of earth, sound, light, space
They ground us and they puncture, state the boundaries yet collide with otherworldly pictures of romance, myth and legend
One sees a tree,
What do you see?
About the Creator
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Comments (4)
Great work Keep it up.
Well-wrought! We all tend to perceive the world according to our innate character and needs. No less the artist, who uses the vision of the real to feed the imagination!
Oh wow, this was soooo profound! Loved your poem!
I love how you ponder and present so many thoughts and ideas on one artist’s palette. Beautifully done, Melissa!