In The Roundness of Things
Have often wondered if she, this woman who comes to sit, leaning back against my trunk, knees bent so that she can write her words, knows how much we have in common.
She wonders, at times, what it must be like to be forever rooted in the same place, perhaps ignoring her own reality of always breathing within her own skin. And thinks it might be sort of nice to grow a ring in circumference each year of existence, like me. Unknowing that I have watched her grow in that steady flow of words she is always writing.
She often looks up and is grateful for my branches and leaves and how they give her shade where she finds moments of quiet and relaxation. Is unaware that I have watched and listened when she brings a friend, offering her wisdom and knowledge, soothing momentary distress and giving the same. Loves the squirrels and birds who often perch here seeking nurture, sustenance, and a safe place. Something I have seen her give freely to sister, daughter, friend, and even a stranger simply seeking direction and receiving much more.
Doesn’t know that I know she calls her words her soul’s songs, even though she speaks to the wind as it rustles through my tresses, and thanks it for the subtle music it creates. She loves the blue of the sky, and sometimes opens her mouth to catch a random drop of rain. Calls herself a sister to trees, yet still sees herself as no more than a kind of sapling. Only wish I could tell her that I know her as my walking sister, far more akin to a stalwart oak.
Elizabeth Crawford 5/4/2019
Posted for Pantry of Prose at Poets United
Note: Prompt was to write prose in the voice of a tree, or trees. This was taken from a poem I wrote many years ago. I thought it would be difficult, to speak as a tree, but the poem helped me to remember and I simply had to lean in and listen.
Image is a pen and ink sketch done years ago.