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You might think being a tree is limiting, But it all depends on where you want to go.
I sit high, skirt bunched around knees, a handful of men’s shadows flickering like rhinestones on the ground below.
Digested, whole, clean
I am a descendent of the Redwoods, there are no transients here.
Meditate to the constant hum that becomes one clear voice, holds the forest together as one, emanating.
I curve my bones to wrap around this tree, snake along niches and bumps, not minding the splinters. Feel what you do.
I am full, The kind of full that fills you like cement in potholes, an empty cup that’s been poured over.
Resilient against the wind, I don’t care about that curve in my spine or my stout prosthetic trunk.
In the tree world, different is good.
I stand tall, let arms curve to branches, leaves sprout free. You see me in the leaves, the bark, the branches, arborescent.
The sun shines down, I look up. Rain showers and I am still, comfort the sad breeze.
My leaves rattle like layers of cellophane over rummaged plastic tableware
Centered, I share space with the sky, the shade, point of land. Scrounge for my share of the sunlight, stealing from the prudish bushes below.
I commune with the forest. Discover that the voice, the hum, was my own.
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-Portia
Birgit and Roger
You were the tree. I believe that. You capture the majestic height and comfort trees bring. Love your imagery and verse!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.