I am a story.
Gulping down feelings.
Wanting more than anything to reach out and touch the roots of my tree, my tree of life, to find the core of everything. Leaves unfolding skyward, sap pumping through my veins, unseen existence flowing silently through strengthening branches, wind brushing barked skin, scattering balsam, dripping mossy sunlight.
|| september twenty-thirteen ||
Maybe, someday, I'll touch the roots. Find the tree's core, listen to it's heartbeat. The birthlace of feeling, of aliveness. The "place where all the beauty came from."
There's remnants of green in your hair, pine needles in your pockets.
The trunk takes on a new ring each year.
The roots pulse, sigh, expand. . .
If feeling is living, than I'm living with a vengeance.