a tree stands tall in the middle of
the forest.
ivy grows around her ankles
like shackles around the doomed.
she sways and swivels and stays
forever in her place.
bound to the ground by
roots and blood,
but so close to the clouds
she can almost touch them.
almost.
she has her seasons,
and she knows them well.
she feels the sun on her
leaves in the summer,
and she feels them
leaving her in the fall.
the winter is rough and lonely,
but she can see so much farther
in the cold.
spring is a time of
birth, of new meetings,
of color.
the tree wears these changes
like scarves,
and looks forward to them
as she's forever bound to look
towards the forest.
she feels so much, so fully
that she knows every vein
of the cool rocks beneath her.
she is friends with every bird
living up in her leaves.
she has so much life coursing
through her wooden heart,
yet she never moves.
she is okay with
living as if she was just a
tree in a forest.
she never begs,
never reaches,
never asks for more.
still, sometimes she wishes
to know better than
just the seasons, the clouds.
sometimes she wishes her roots
went so far deep, so far wide,
that she knew the whole world
and all its stories.
but she has learned over the long,
long years that
wishing doesn't get you
any further than the wind does.
only rustling your branches
once in a while, but it
makes you feel like
you can fly.
she knows she cannot fly.
so she stands, tall and still,
and she looks at everything
she's ever known.
her everything, her all,
is not enough.
she learns this quietly,
because that's all she's ever done.
but she feels it
roaring, rushing ruthlessly
through her deepest roots,
and she'll feel it until she is hollow.
-V
أنت تقرأ
still, none the wiser (poetry)
الشعرi grieve for memories, mostly. ☆☆☆☆ these poems are messy attempts to decipher my feelings about messy things. (also I love criticism, plz be mean <3)
