letter to a tree

i did not climb you when i was younger.

i was afraid my arms would give out

or worse, my shirt would pull up

and my world of the playground

would see my little tummy

and my littler belly button.

i visited your family, the vastness was startling

but your ancestors housed a deep serenity

the simplicity of the crowd

it swallowed so forgivingly

i leapt off the cliff and found your touch again

and felt your every ridge

and scratch and line i could discern

i hugged you so earnestly and listened for a voice

the creaking; do we realize

it is whispering that,

with effort,

one may make out—

the words of the wisest and the statements from the seas?

i hugged you so deeply

my ears were on yours;

i was vastly outnumbered

but did our cheeks graze and did i feel your blemishes

did the storms and eroding ever feel as scary as the void

that anxiety sometimes creates and fills with more furious

decree?

are you cordial with the beetles that wear the greatest

black helmets wielding pincers much scarier than mine?

i hugged you so deeply that day

because it reminded me that stillness is undying

the dimples of a stump

neck of a giraffe

i laid my hands on you craving some form of therapy or

cathartic glory.

the serenity in silence

of your grandiose family

it stood

steadfast as could be;

it spoke to me.