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 […]

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Longing for snow

How linear. The rain Which washes the trees, Also washes the frog and me. We stare at one another, The tree buds eyes, The frog bubbles up to sing. Emerald light dissolves All that is green and dancing; The buds open a little, and close, We all should sleep in this cold. Straight to the […]

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the days will grow longer

the trees wore white like brides of the hoarfrost, standing tall under the veil of the pale cloud-intoned sky. not only the pines, birches and maples, and lindens, and aspens, even the spruces had dressed their hands in white spikes to pierce the shorter days of the year. an unobtrusive sun peeked over the treeline […]

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to a tree in September

You too grow yellow as the sun enters the equinox. The shadows cut sharp against the pale clouds merged with the haze Where the sea breathes Another storm. Your branches lose the whispering weight and turn to silver. Chattering starlings come and throng away whistling an almost wedding song. The seeds have scattered for small […]

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Translating verticality

I am Vertical   by Sylvia Plath   Es stāvu uz augšu But I would rather be horizontal. Bet ļoti gribas būt šķērsām. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Es neesmu koks, kas izlaidis saknes Sucking up minerals and motherly love Iesūc vielas un mātišķu mīlestību, So that each March […]

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how linden trees give names

they (the linden trees) are gnarled and crabby, and craggy, and at least a hundred years old. we (the people) are crabby and smooth, and the wrong shape, and too quick to die. they observe us when we come within their range of perception. they think slowly, arboreally. they write their observations into their time-lines […]

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the earth and the air are in opposition: the earth still warm, the air carries a frosty breath. and water escapes from earth, and goes up. to get stuck like white crystals in the hair of the trees, making them grizzly and white. the trees do not mind, the trees have warm feet.

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the finest time of the year, when the air is so transparent, and the gaze meets all those colours, and there is the freedom of putting down the burden of summer, and feeling light, like the cranes, and the geese, and all those little nameless birds that move overhead, through the night sky calling out […]

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is dark in its green, stretching, stabbing the air handsomely; a sway and a breath, a flutter, bird-feet stuttering in wait for the snow. the bark a little scaly, climbing, higher, higher, till the bellies of clouds are scratched invisibly, playing right into the gates of stars. carefully leaning, the smell of resin, all freshening, […]

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to stand barefoot next to a tree, and extend a hand and grow into the grass and soil beneath, and reach up, out, towards the sun. or the cloudy sky, or the darkness of night, starlit, moonlit, otherwise. to hear the grass grow. to commune with the birds in the branches, as they seek refuge, […]

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trees sleep standing up

they undress for the winter, then cover their feet, then stretch out towards the sky, and go to sleep. they dream of little scurrying critters in some warm place in a realm far beyond this reality. the tree dreams take the whole winter to fill out, to grow – the little scurrying critters put on […]

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last night

last night i was listening to the maple trees outside my window how they created a multicolour susurrus in the dark discussing the latest fashion of the stars and the music of birds of flight as the moon peeked cautiously over the margin of the treeline, hidden by the blocks of flats.

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apple tree

she is old. she was planted by my grandfather’s father. she has survived a world war, and countless winters and summers, and wild animals, and humans. i played in her branches when i was a kid. the apples were winter apples, their smell – refreshing and beautiful in the dark  winter evenings. i still come […]

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i have always been particular to the trees. because they are so rooted, so wooden. because they have those tree souls that make a nice echo in my soul – or maybe it is my soul’s echo in theirs? because they do not mind just being there. because when i put my hands to their […]

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