Spoken Roots

The trees whisper to me,

they tell a story, your story, my story--

the story

of how I was planted and

born into a seed,

hatched long before my time of need,

turning soil under my roots

and leaves towards the sky-stars above,

for a time that no longer exists

but waits and ponders, wondering

where do we all go?

A tree with bark and heart and flow

burning under the tears of clouded rain storms,

replacing suns with moons night after night, day after day--

your wind tastes like me, tempting floral honey and dirt filled earth

in harvesting rocky decay.

For when my rings sprout the cycle of life

and I plant my first leaves,

will you think of me?

Where we once dreamed of walking and talking and living and leaving,

will my voice sting and burn in the back of your throat, to whisper like the trees?

A tickle, a fickle beast-- reminding you

Heaven and nature are here to claim you, to call you forward in growth--

where you can humble and bumble like a bundle of bees, but,

will you remember the rain on your skin in the spring?

the flowers that bloom around you in unison when time leaves?

How the world sprouts through your bones and into the bodies of those gone ashen before you?

A reminder of how we swim in the same waters and cleanse in the same fountains.

Shedding scales and tales and toads--in their honor,

all for the promise of what is owed in the name of sorrow