unlike the wonderful Sylvia Plath, i sometimes think i’d like to be a tree. I’d like to be , well, no, not vertical (that too, of course), but a tree. so i wrote this:
maybe i am a tree
between the up there and down here, and down
some more.
like a spruce, my roots
spread wide and exchanging
the carbon with a nearby birch.
or maybe, a pine,
one root going down
down, down and down
where the reality hatches.
what if I were a holly,
evergreen, red-berried, leaves
ready to witness of life
(and make tea).
or a maple, five-pointed
leaves gathered in autumn
to serve as the foundation of bread,
the sap refreshing in spring?
maybe I’m just a world-tree,
a mad squirrel running
between my heaven and hell,
telling the wolf that devours
that there’s another day.
