Jan 17

your poem

I am trying to write a poem about a tree, 
I look outside and there it is, another tree,
There are trees everywhere, really,
Can you tell that i have never been good at writing
What other people want me to write? 
My pen wanders away before i can corral it,
Always directions to go other than the one I have chosen. 

Right. Back to the tree. Let’s imagine our tree, shall we? 
Imagine our tree stretching up, stretching down,
It must be painful for the tree to be constantly stretched 
Out like that. Am I using simile? Metaphor? Personification? 
Am I comparing the tree to me? You decide. After all, 
It is your poem. No, i insist. Take it. It’s all I have left to give. 

Never mind the devices, let’s talk about cutting down the tree,
Lets talk about feeling the wood splinter 
Underneath your fingers, and running your hand over 
Rings upong rings, 
let’s talk about how the only thing left to do after we create the tree 
Is to destroy it. 

So let’s step back. So let’s look at the tree. 
There’s moss growing at the base, ants marching up the trunk. 
I always wonder what i must be like to be an ant seeing a human 
For the first time. I would be terrified to see a giant coming out of the sky. 
The ants in front of us don’t seem to mind. Perhaps the ants 
Are braver than I am. 

I think too much, I know that. You probably know it too, by now. 
But the thing is, when I put my hand on the tree, I imagine that it’s 
Reaching back out to me, and my thoughts quiet a little. I imagine 
That it’s keeping me safe. It’s silly, because I know the tree is just 
Sap & wood, just like how I am only flesh & bone. 
So maybe i’m trying to say we are both a little more that what we should be. 
So maybe i’m trying to say we are both a little more than we really are. 

Consider the branches. Could they support us? 
I suppose it’s okay if you go up there and tell me what you see, 
Whether the wind slaps your face until it’s stinging, whether the 
Branches feel like they’re digging deep into your bones. 
After all, I write, and writing is just a second hand experience 
Of every story that’s ever been lived. 
Really, it’s okay that you’ll see more than i will. I think i’m used to it. 

So I was trying to write about a tree, 
And i ended up writing about a lot of things i didn’t mean to.
I hope i showed you my tree,
And what i mean by that is, i hope you forgive me for all the things you saw in me, 
And what i mean by that is, the tree said that i don’t have to apologise
At all.