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| by vilhelm via morguefile |
The tree is a library
The trunk a tight-rolled scroll
The bark coiling layers of scribbled sheets
Pressed together, holding their truths close
Against sun and rain and fire
Deep furrows channel the bark
Erode the text, obscure what is written
But each season, life writes a new page
Records, with incised lines and curving figures
Selections from the infinite world of incident
Written in overlapping fractal script
In characters of color, shape, and shade
Ochre, cinnamon, sepia; no two alike
The tracery of experience, an alphabet
Limitless and direct
The tree’s base is deep in discarded letters
Each a puzzle piece, indecipherable
Not renounced but outgrown
An earlier draft now erased, yet
Still embossed on the page beneath
I spread my hand upon the sun-warmed bark
Grasp the greatness of that ancient book
Unable to read a single word, I am content
With the beauty of the lines
The magic contained in words unread
This story tells the history of a tree and has this beautiful poem included. Happy New Year.
Shared by GreenSprings0
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