birch

I knew I had found my way home by the one tree I knew and loved. It still stood there on the top of the hill. Set against the greenness of the grass underneath, it looked dead but it was only winter that's all. When the snow fell, landed and collected on the ground it would come alive though, in the black and white beauty that black and white is. So vivid and dreamy and Burton like. I expected a wiry little man to merge from its bark, cause he lived there, in the tree. It would explain the 'aliveness' of the birch, it would explain how I was convinced it spoke to me, with wisdom and reassurance.

unison

So cyclical our lives. Ending where we begin. Beginning where we end. Dust particles float past, dusting the sunbeam passing through the window next to me. And what will become of the time and space we consumed? Will the irises and marigolds intensify their colors because we slumbered too long and it is the only way to get us to see? Yes, we have exploited our greatest resource; life itself. A small particle of hope is sold to us at the cost of our clarity, our clairvoyance, because all of us know on some level we have been deceived, particularly by ourselves. Trading passion and purpose for complacency. I know what I see yet I fall in line, not so unlike those I detest. I silenced myself just like the others, in self-doubt and self-criticism and the hellish pursuit of something that is not real.

In unison clothed in faded jeans I watch them trot off across cement patio blocks, so seemingly content and optimistic. How we survive the infiltration and yet succumb to bee stings I don't quite understand. The unknown manifested lyrically rather than accurately or sensibly. Maybe there is no point, no bottom line other than striking a chord, affecting a stifled and rigid brain, a lost and forgotten sense of purpose. Fleeting moments like dominoes setting into motion a chain reaction that knocks us all over.