Monday, August 22, 2022
If you could listen to my tree grow, you’d hear sap dripping into the crevasses of tree bark that tears would boil over upon touch. Steam would rise to the branches, causing the tree to be so moist that it expands to make its leaves become the dichotomy of nature.
Next to each soggy leaf are the critters, who take advantage of the water this tree holds hostage. Through autumn when the leaves fall, so do the creatures. Then, they’ll forage closer to the roots of such an embarkment of space this tree will take up through the ether.
And so, the wind blows, shifting wet branches. Some fall, most won’t.
The crackling, the whistling, presents an orchestrated symphony, however, this tree conducts its storm.
Its roots have been fighting between dirt an earthworm smuggles through—since before the sap we pour onto pancakes found out it has branches to struggle next to. When the leaves reincarnate through dirt, seeping down to its roots, all said components make the annual rendezvous.
My tree will hear itself.