Through my branches, there is the pulse of life.
For she was a stoic solid oak tree with limbs reaching out and out and out, both up and down with branches and roots, with the changing of the winds and seasons around her while her reaching carried on…
And there was a limitless and bottomless capacity for certain things in the days of winter and fall.
A cavernous emptiness to be filled in the months of November, December, January…
There were stagnant, passive kinds of things -
To want.
To need.
To be forever reaching.
To allow for pieces of herself to fall away.
She had expansive breath in this and was aware of her own careful heartbeat.
But still she waited on and on for the changing of things from winter to spring, for the pushing from the soil and the sighing from the sky she knew to be the month of April…May…
Her reaching seemed, then, to grab on, to pour out, to be for reasons beyond what she had known before and she could hear and feel these things around her, active and changing kinds of things -
To touch.
To kiss.
To own as if it had always been so.
To grow out and up into herself.
This was the time, it seemed, for she was a stoic solid oak tree with limbs reaching out and out and out and now grabbing on so that her heartbeat was just fast enough, just loud enough, that she thought for a moment it must be the arrival of some great parade. A declaration, a shout -
A happy ode to her ever-reaching soul.
And there was a limitless and bottomless capacity for certain things in the days of winter and fall.
A cavernous emptiness to be filled in the months of November, December, January…
There were stagnant, passive kinds of things -
To want.
To need.
To be forever reaching.
To allow for pieces of herself to fall away.
She had expansive breath in this and was aware of her own careful heartbeat.
But still she waited on and on for the changing of things from winter to spring, for the pushing from the soil and the sighing from the sky she knew to be the month of April…May…
Her reaching seemed, then, to grab on, to pour out, to be for reasons beyond what she had known before and she could hear and feel these things around her, active and changing kinds of things -
To touch.
To kiss.
To own as if it had always been so.
To grow out and up into herself.
This was the time, it seemed, for she was a stoic solid oak tree with limbs reaching out and out and out and now grabbing on so that her heartbeat was just fast enough, just loud enough, that she thought for a moment it must be the arrival of some great parade. A declaration, a shout -
A happy ode to her ever-reaching soul.