Stride
Well-known member
Just something I wrote observing myself as a kid.
A tree stares at me,
With brown chips of bark
And fading yellow leafs.
I watch as sap trickles from the wound I make with my axe:
Why was I born so careless?
I reach out with a hand
To touch the tar between my fingers.
I bring the sap to my nose
To smell the blood of ancients.
I lick the tips of my fingers,
To taste an antiquated life.
I look up to the top of the tree
Expecting a squirrel or bird to fault my image.
But through the branches I can see the clouds parting;
A dead pine needle falls and cradles its way to my reddened cheek.
My eyes wince at the foreign object.
I swat the needle to the floor of the world.
Near by I pick up a branch:
The bone of my nature,
And snap it over my knee.
I find plants to rip from the dirt:
The veins of my nature,
And bury their roots between my finger nails.
I would grab two flowers:
The eyes of my nature,
And flick off their heads with the tip of my thumbs.
I wander the rest of the yard
And shiver.
A tree stares at me,
With brown chips of bark
And fading yellow leafs.
I watch as sap trickles from the wound I make with my axe:
Why was I born so careless?
I reach out with a hand
To touch the tar between my fingers.
I bring the sap to my nose
To smell the blood of ancients.
I lick the tips of my fingers,
To taste an antiquated life.
I look up to the top of the tree
Expecting a squirrel or bird to fault my image.
But through the branches I can see the clouds parting;
A dead pine needle falls and cradles its way to my reddened cheek.
My eyes wince at the foreign object.
I swat the needle to the floor of the world.
Near by I pick up a branch:
The bone of my nature,
And snap it over my knee.
I find plants to rip from the dirt:
The veins of my nature,
And bury their roots between my finger nails.
I would grab two flowers:
The eyes of my nature,
And flick off their heads with the tip of my thumbs.
I wander the rest of the yard
And shiver.
