A hundred bare arms reach into the sky, thin, malnourished – the blood within their limbs frozen over, paralyzed. The gracious light from which the hands feed has long vanished- the air around them, thinned and empty.
But these limbs of wood do not withdraw. They continue, continue to strain upwards, strong and hopeful. They do not care- the tree does not care- that night has draped over him, that the air bites at his flesh.
The tree reaches his arms through the black – past the frigid surroundings, past the bleak silence and haunting memories of better days- and waits. He waits for the moment when he may bathe his body in gold and fill his hands with wealth. And in his fortune he shares this bounty with all around- savouring, rejoicing, living.
For the tree is wise and knows that the dawn will come.
I think this is my first legitimate attempt at a poem. Well, first that I felt any interest in posting. It’s rather raw, and needs some tweaking. I’m not good with punctuation when it comes to poetry, at least when writing it. Interestingly none of the things that I call “poems” actually sound like poems. I guess that works; I don’t want to be poet…
I’m also having some trouble with that last line. I had originally had “and knows that all things pass” , but that sounded cliche and didn’t feel right at all. Any suggestions would be lovely. Or harsh, berating criticism. You know, if that’s your shtick.
I got inspired while taking a walk to check my mail. I noticed this tree’s branches looked like hundreds of arms shooting upward. It just didn’t seem like a tree to me, but a living thing. I mean obviously trees are alive, but we don’t often see them as such. It’s difficult to recognize them as things that grow, breathe, and die. Not that I’m saying we should all go out and hug some trees, but you get my gist.
Also, this type of writing is good practise for me. Not just in terms of my writing, but in how I view my surroundings and my ability to articulate my thoughts on them. My therapist has been talking a lot about changing my reality/perception, becoming a product of my own making, inner divinity- those sorts of things.
Something has changed in me, though. I feel…different. I think I’m starting to finally realize that I am now a woman, not a girl. However, the meaning of this changes eludes me. I have no clue if I’m late to this, or if I’m arriving precisely at the time I’m supposed to.