A Rumor Of Trees
Sometimes you have to go back to the beginning to understand—and even then—you might still be in the dark.
There is a swamp—once rumored with trees—that colluded with the Earth in a covenant.
Suspended on each branch—an epitaph—inscribed upon the skin of each leaf—longhand.
A signature of the narrator—a legend concealed inside the manuscript. Abducted by the wind, in the silence of the night—under a sky uncivilized with thought.
Amongst an accompaniment—an ensemble—a surrender to the wind. Each word—each letter on each leaf—swirls amid the ransacking. The tall grass, sunburned and weary with moments—sing the words, as they kiss their lips in anticipation.
The trees weep with loss of their voice—as their words fade, and the grass—tall and sunburned—weary with moments—drowns under the crescendo of tears.
A hush so loud, it roared—fell over the swamp, as the trees once so full of a wealth of promises—now stand barren—a skeleton amongst the birth.
I found myself pulled to that swamp. Wanting to know. Hip deep in water—so full of words—I couldn’t see the bottom.
Mud—thick with the remains of sunburned grass—weary with moments—spelled letters—that once kissed their lips—upon the bottoms of my feet.
The skeletons of the trees—a substantial reminder of a life once lived—now read of stories untold.
A great blue heron stands within the remains of a tree—a surveyor of solitude—a keeper of words.
I look through that water and try to read the words—I grab at the letters with my hands, and try to arrange them—but with every attempt—they sink to the bottom. Receding into darkness—remaining unspoken. A legend concealed inside a manuscript. Abducted by the wind.
So much of what you write feels like entering a dream (or nightmare) to the reader, not fully understanding and things not making logical sense, yet all the time fully feeling it, raw as ever. X
This is the piece that you want to read when the world is silent.