Cottonwoods composed with the bitter promise of time—wrinkled and creased with age—stand like a sentiment of accepting the things you cannot change.
Dreams like snow, grieve abundantly from all that it holds—like feelings that ache to be understood, and write themselves boldly upon the earth. An inscription of the vow of its descent—telling a story within the lament.
Night stalks the light of day—the tree moans within the ensemble, amongst the breathings of the earth—a howl of the admission of its truth.
It cannot escape the dirt that writes itself upon it like a signature at its very core—the place it comes from.
It must bend with every storm. It must grasp its leaves within the understanding upon the edge of every gale.
It must burgeon new growth, as written in the covenant that sculpts rings—unhindered—within its heart.
When it breaks into pieces—it must stand there upon the signature of the dirt that bore it—that gives so many life—and yet covers so many dead—It must stand there, and look at the wreckage—the fragments and pieces of itself—and amongst those ruins—it must keep bending with every breathing of the earth and upon every gale.
It must endure every storm, and when it’s broken—it must look at it—if only to grow new.
It HAS been a while! Welcome back! Your writing is gorgeously poetic. Wow. Pure inspiration. Including your generous use of longdashes. I consciously use them more often than I used to, because of you. They are so useful and powerful!
'Cottonwoods composed with the bitter promise of time—wrinkled and creased with age—stand like a sentiment of accepting the things you cannot change'.
Really lovely writing. A poem treading the darkness and light.