in the warming season i tried to gain a higher eye, learning how it feels to stand between the earth and sky:
across the meadow, but more _through_, past sunblonde spotless stalks i walk to where the tree stands, seeming lone, grownextothrough the rock. lichen-covered all’way up–rosettes and fractal splays–the bark i clutch as up i climb to where the branches sway. my reaching fingers stretch and split, my skin grows thick and knurled. i taste the light upon my crown, my foliage unfurled. my roots below drive down and deep, push through soil and stone; above, my leaves stretch skyward where wind whispers, sings, and moans; in between i sit in stillness, silent in this oaken throne.
when heat was at its peak i sought out one whose feet were wet, finding that to settle in, it takes a sentimental set:
i wander, see them waving, slender and tall and leaning with the breeze, a curious kind of call that leads me nearly to their knees. firstfound are deeper in than i can reach–it’s tight here, dense with weaving–but i press, stepping high and light, and soon the closeness almost seems relieving. i see their stalks and roots are intertwined, how they support each other, bending in one blend. they hold the help all hope to find: a constant, caring, friend. at first i draw them piece by piece, but soon the borders blur; only when nine tails are one do crowded clowders start to purr.
seasons changed and greens turned gold, moved on their way to brown, and finding one who knew all three i learned of drawing in and down:
the yellow flicker draws my gaze, and i come to sit near. bending close, i feel the flower fading without fear. on the same stalk are brown and curled shells, dried and lost to life, yet this flower is tranquil, relaxed in repose, no sign or scent of strife. it’s ready to fall, to crumble and dissolve, to return to the soil it grew of, secure in some knowledge my people have lost–though i’m sure now it’s one they once knew of. here by this dying plant i feel hunched and close and shrinking; i pull and taste a petal, to better know its thinking. all at once i want to stretch out tall and bright and golden, straight as a rising rod, and i know how this plant in its twilight’s emboldened: it knows all it needs to know, as it thinks on how its seeds will grow, once the coming winter’s night has thawed.
in the white time, my half-world’s night-time, i wonder: where will i go walking when the waking warmth returns? whose leaves will wear the lives i touch, which slow-grown lessons will i learn? out there among the trees and thorns and vines and roots and weeds, i know my seeking soul will find the sustenance it needs.