Apr 222012
There are those in our midst who cannot speak with a voice most of the rest of us are willing to hear or understand.
This column is dedicated to them.

I am the rising sap of the spring tide.

I am rooted in your Earth, once mine.

Planted in a  special hole in your cement, so my trunk might grow without buckling your pavement; I would thank you for your courtesy . . . though contending your control.

You lop my boughs from those places that displease you; carve signs deep into my young bark . . . I neither wrestle nor reason with your ways.

I am strong. My stark branches bare and budding in preparation for the coming summer, during which time I will grow, again, to shade those among you who would stand kerbside.

I will outlive you, bearing witness in the meantime to your transitory lives. Although of course you have the power to limit my existence – one chainsaw, one chipper, one man.

I reach anyway, stretch, touching that part of sky that would meet me.

I reach anyway, without pause; I reach.




 April 22, 2012  Add comments

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