There is panic in the silence. A flirting of devil wings and sideways and inverted glimpses of a lethal intent without focus, seemingly destined to cut me down like a sequoia, with that constant epidermal damage exposing the rings with which I will be identified.

Thin lines of tightly packed flesh painting a story in the sap, a great feast for the mites and aphids that spread me about the world outside. The subdermal cataclysm bores to my heartwood, and the beating of it shakes the other trees, waking them, reminding them that alone we are firewood, but together we cleanse the world and we are mighty.

The thunder of my fall will be heard by the forest, and it will live in eternal reverb among those I helped avoid lethal self judgement so that they can bloom beautiful and tempered, but never broken and never felled.

03/06/2018

Posted on 03/06/2018
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