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A tale told by trees, rooted
in the things that yearn
far from sight and light of day
deep within the earth…
Wisdom, cautious, heeds -
woe befalls one who disturbs
a tale told by trees.

Long ere innocence was lost,
drinking deep from springs
reaching to the very core,
undefiled and clean,
filaments of love,
spanning spaces in between,
trees, communal, touched.

Evil, cast from lofty heights,
considered the woods,
seeking to devour his prey,
still licking his wounds
eager for revenge
wanting to inflict pain soon
ravenous to rend.

Majestic, the Watchers stood,
shepherds of the flock.
Life sustained and nurtured them,
Knowledge oversaw
forest’s barrier,
examining weakness sought
out by Deceiver.

Life intoned sonorous tunes,
resonating deep,
calling forth the very rock,
fortified the shield,
thereby cutting off
Deceiver from the unseen
realm, or so she thought.

New, they were to the forest,
He and She, upright.
Innocence, but with an edge -
free rein on desire.
To work and to keep,
to eschew Knowledge or die,
else, do as they please.

Malice, scarlet red like blood,
drawn in bitter fruit,
Deceiver’s guiles locked away,
treacher’s awful tunes,
carried off by birds,
given to the sea to rule,
far from loamy earth.

Thus, the Watchers could but watch,
had no dominion
over He and She, their tune
not given to be sung.
And so they sheltered,
shielded them from noonday sun,
death still but a word.

Fateful day detailed elsewhere,
sung in other songs…
Beguiled, She plucked and bit the
flesh, its poisoned spawn
spilled on sacred ground,
blissful innocence now gone,
judgment coming down.

Vile images of axe and
blade, like wildfire raced
throughout the interwoven
web of roots that stayed
Evil’s wretched wiles.
Recoiling, the severed strains
never realigned.

Seeing now their enmity,
He and She thus foes
unleashed upon a world their
selfish choices broke,
the woods, in chaos,
sprouted thorns with anguished groans,
forgot sweeter songs.

Banished, the way back was barred,
wilderness ahead,
bitter memories behind.
What the future held
unclear, but for this:
walks with Him came to an end,
life was harsh and thin.

To fall so far, in hardship
toil in the debris,
a pile of leaves our only
friend, Him, an unreached
pillow in the sky…
Naked, starlit covers, we:
a tale told by trees.


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More than a hat-tip, I read Pillow In The Sky by Panagiota Romios, and was captivated by that last line, a tale told by trees. I asked if she would mind if I teased that line out a bit, and this Sequidilla is my attempt. It is rough around the edges, but I am not unhappy with it. The words of her senryu are preserved intact as the final 3 lines of this poem.

A Seguidilla is 7 lines, 7:5:7:5:5:7:5 with assonance on (2,4,6) and (5,7)
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