Life of Trees
we talk about putting roots down deep, branching out. our arms, our hair, our feet, our legs – we are tree trunks, we are tree branches, we are tree limbs. some of us have root systems that are intertwined, we are extroverts. Some of us are introverts, islands, distantly reaching for one another, but not actually touching. We are swamp trees, grabbing onto each other, just to be able to stand up. We are shelter for one another. We are shelter for others. We are sustenance. We are light suckers. We are air givers.
we are dying. We are living. We are aging. We are ubiquitous.
we are aspens, willows, Oaks, birches, Pinetree’s, giant sequoias.
we are flexible and inflexible. We bend and we break. We blow in the breeze. We drop our leaves. We change colors.
What the fuck am I even talking about? You can’t tell me you haven’t heard at least a few of these things. Did you get a bingo yet?
we are not trees. We kill trees. We abuse trees. We use them up. We don’t replant. we burn them down. we don’t value them the way they ought to be valued.
perhaps we are trees.
I see a stick on my driveway. I imagine it is a wand, I am a wizard. I can wield power. But my power is not in magic, it is in words. my tongue is magic.
how easy it is to break someone with words and to be broken. And like the tree, the dead branch cannot be grafted. once broken, there is no remedy. It is done. It is finished. It is kindling. But kindling has its uses.
we are piles of dead branches, waiting to be put to use, waiting to be a source of warmth, and perhaps also waiting to be warmed, waiting to be together, made into more than we are on our own.
We are campfires waiting to happen, bonfires waiting.
We used to be trees.
Now we are dead things.
But seeds die before they grow again.
We can grow again.
We will grow again.
We will die again.