We had a three hundred year old pine across the street when I was growing up. Three trunks in one tree: the father, the son and the holy ghost. This is what I called them and then I crawled inside their belly to have my tea. I buried my secrets and built small graves for birds. Here is how you love, without reason, something incapable of loving you back. It is beautiful that way.
My first year away from home the power company came and cut the pine down, I was at college and everything was changing. I remember walking up to the door, turning around and seeing so much emptiness and light. I threw up all over my mother’s rhododendrons.
Someone asked me today, how long ago it was I cried for love? Tonight I want to know how to climb trees, how to begin again. I think the birds know all the answers.
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5 comments:
Do we ever stop crying for love, I wonder??
That last paragraph reads like a poem. And, I'm not surprised about our sisters, our dryer photos. So far, you have been right about everything.
Pris, I suppose you dont but I would like to.
Alison, being right is a horrible way to begin;) and yes, yes about of sisters and dryers.
Stunning. Can't tell if it's a poem or a post. I like it that way.
When they cut the Box Alder down from the hill behind my childhood home, I cried. That was four years ago.
'and if like a phoenix
you dare to rise up from the ash'
--Ani DiFranco
The post is a poem. It's lovely.
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