Where The Tree Goes Into The Ground

“I like,” she said, “wearing pants with no pockets.
Not carrying a purse. But it’s just pretend.
You know it’s just pretend. I wouldn’t do it
if you didn’t understand it’s just pretend.”

She sat down. Where the tree goes into the ground
its big roots made a kind of natural chair.

I sat next to her. Put my arm around her.
I leaned against the tree. She leaned against me.

Up in the sky, wind was doing something strange
to the fluffy white clouds. Two weather systems
were bumping into each other or something
and the round tops of the clouds were shearing off,
turning into long thin streams of clouds slowly.
The blue sky and white clouds were being replaced
by overcast, gold near the Sun, turning gray.

“Everything,” she said, “is changing. Pretending
is like playing. Playing is what children do.”

The wind was beginning to reach ground level.
We both heard, both looked up, as the leaves rustled
in the bright green canopy above our heads.

“If you understand,” she said, “then I don’t care.
These roots are so thick. But I bet in a storm
even a tree like this can be uprooted.
They say only the strong will survive. I think
even a tree like this will be uprooted.
I don’t care. I just need you to understand.”

I held her, shaking, more tightly against me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .




The Metaphysics Of Elle


Like A Bright Green Fantasy


Steam And Laughter By The Somewhere Tree