My Tree
My Tree
I can look at my tree for hours and never see the same branch or leaf or gnarled knot.
My eyes travel forever, up and down the ridged bark, tracing the deep folds and the open wounds of missing limbs.
I can get lost in the leaves, often wondering if I'll ever return.
Gently waving branches are calling for me to climb up and converse about the Universe.
Rough, sharp bark scrapes at my knees and knuckles as I ascend to join the silent communion.
My hands smell of old thoughts and wisdom.
The wisdom that there is no such thing as wisdom.
Precariously perched on my favorite limb, worn smooth from my visits, I gaze out to the field of cotton behind my house.
My tree welcomes my young body, calmly waiting for me to lean back and start another day of drifting dreams.
I get lost in the leaves, not caring if I ever return.
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