tree myth

poetry home



The trees walked up
and lifted me to
their top branches,
carrying me along
like servants bearing
a litter. My
fingers twined with
their leaves like
lovers hands, and
I felt cradled in
their boughs like
a child needing
rest. The rustle
and sway of
their trunks lightly
stepping whispered
soft echoes of
oak myth and
cherrywood history.
I knew they'd
carry me all day -
trees don't tire
like flesh and
bone. When
eggblue twilight
curls the sky,
the trees will
place me down
and I will be home.

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