On Trees.

Someone in an attempt to create a tree, created green.


A tree like a still photograph. Of what?


Sometimes, when I look at a tree long enough, it moves. Almost. But, then I move. The tree always manages to look at me longer.


I walked in my room and found a tree observing me from the window.


A tree in the fog. One seems more real than the other.


Where is the tree you grew up with?


Trees must flee from their stillness.


A tree can only move in shadows.


Trees where my grandmother used to be.


The bare trees resemble their roots.


Trees want to be without roots.


An old boyfriend once told me that he’d never seen any tree die a natural death.


I have seen trees die of boredom.

3 responses to “On Trees.”

  1. Your mastery over words humbles me. This web space is a treasure trove of some very, very beautiful pieces of writing. All the best, please don’t ever stop.

    Love, Miffalicious. [www.miffalicious.com]

  2. “Where is the tree you grew up with?” — Your posts shoot daggers into my mostly soulless heart. I miss the tree outside my window, my window too. Most of all, I miss myself.

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