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My tree is old.
Old and dead.
My tree has been
cut down.
Carved up.
Mashed about…
Pulverized!
Smeared.
Stained.
My tree is bound
with cords.
Fettered
Crammed tight, used, abused…
And loved.
Poured over.
Brings light,
Brings laughter,
Brings life.
Hope in the darkness?
A friend to these lonely days.
Wise old days to those without days.
Young days to
the old and bent.
My tree has the hearts of generations inscribed on its
trunk.
My tree lifts me up and holds me, brings me down and makes
me question myself, and opens the world before me like a book…
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