The trees! : NaPoWriMo #17

The Douglas firs

These trees, these trees
don’t need another poem
written about them,
another poet waxing philosophical
about what it means to breathe,

but here I am offering myself
to the tabernacle of greenery,
feeling like Dale Cooper
with my coffee and my childish stupor,
awe-swept and mouth full
of sweet cherry pie filling
and flaking, crumble crust,
a substitute for my lack of words

to describe those slender trunks
congregating skyward in tight clusters
of dark and light lines
breaking the horizon
into perpendicular designs
like a massive set of slatted blinds
drawn sideways, but the sun still peeks
through the cracks before swallowed
in the depths of the wood,

and after so much upward growth,
there’s the branches and the boughs,
a fingered inversion of roots unseen,
so much like a consciousness
pulling in perceptions of the world,
divining water siphoning pollutants from the air
like a mind turning madness into portrait,
and isn’t that the way of life,
just a brief excursion from nothing,
for such a fleeting observance of beauty
before returning to scattered seeds.


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