I am 237 years old today,
the oldest tree in this forest. I am
a living measurement of time, a history book in
its most natural form. Wizened by decades of observation
witness to catastrophes and wonders you will never know
but there is one tragedy I will tell you. One of every twelve
trees in Vermont are ash trees like me and their wails in the wind warn
of imminent death in the form of an emerald beetle. Their larvae grow under
our bark, feed on our flesh, blocking our transportation of water and
nutrients until our skin becomes brittle and splits, our crowns of
foliage fall and we die of thirst and starvation. These invasive
aliens won't stop until we've all collapsed, returning
 to the earth we once arose from. You may
be thinking "It's just
trees, why should
we care?" Our lives
are more entwined
than you realize.
We take your exhales

My parents wonder at my chronic disorganization,
  for which I can offer only one explanation:         
 surrounded by mess, is where I work best                
 in the eye of the storm, I best perform.
My creative flow, is more like a tornado
                but I'm the master, of my natural disaster.     
    To others my room is quite amiss
         yet I know where everything is.
It represents my thoughts,   
     cluttered & random
but not really lost.
I feel most      
at peace
     amidst
 choas.