I wasn’t looking
but the wind pressed its palm
into the spine of the tree,
and it bent—not broke—
and that was its sermon.
Some days
I wonder if I’m bark
or the veins beneath it.
Either way,
I’ve stopped
counting rings.
Bowed by Wind
I wasn’t looking
but the wind pressed its palm
into the spine of the tree,
and it bent—not broke—
and that was its sermon.
Some days
I wonder if I’m bark
or the veins beneath it.
Either way,
I’ve stopped
counting rings.
