A Tree Story
A tree takes on the wind with or without its leaves. The same force of air blows
in Winter, but colder, more bitter.
Is this a story about the strength of the tree or the fierceness of the winter?
These are different winds moving in atmosphere currents around the globe. Does
the wind speed our revolution up? I say "our" as a member of this
planet. I say again: Does the wind speed our revolution up? How fast does this
thing have to spin before we break off the axis and tumble like an errant marble
out into the unknown. Is there anything out there for us to bump into? Will
we break or will we bounce? Without gravity will we float? Up? What direction
does the wind of the universe flow?
Will the tree build its strength here, and then uproot itself looking for redefinition?
I could take the place of the tree. Dig my toes into the surface and burrow
toenail by toenail till I find solidity when the wind blows my way. I'm ok with
facing the cold, naked with no leaves to draw you in. During this season no
one is looking anyway.
This is probably when you learn the most about me. When the only warmth I have
comes from the ground up. You touch me and I'm cold. I'm just trying to get
a chin up on the promise of frost tonight.
Are you the ice or the shadow? Cause I know you're close. Are you the ice
insulating my limbs? Or are you stretched out on the earth around me letting
me know I exist?
When the sun casts her smile on me my ice begins to refract. The air is too
cold for melting. The ice does its best to filter the white light of the sun
through its prism, turning a single ray of light into a spectrum of colors uncountable.
Is this a trick? Or is this about beauty?
That sun and her smile further define my shadow. A gray fading outline suddenly
a black contrast on the snowcovered white ground. What's swimming around in
that dark shape vaguely resembling my body? A shadow is a trap depending on
which way you're standing. Face the sun and you're trapping her light; face
the shadow and you're trapping the ground.
It's me. I'm the tree. I'm the trap. It's me.
Winter is the most downtrodden of the four seasons, oppressed for being so uncomfortable.
Its beauty has to be sought out and examined. And then frequently remembered.
December 17, 2005