A Woodpecker's Day

a woodpecker pecking the past from a tree little by little to breed the ‘future’—the eggs, the woodpecker will lay in it; what will the tree do? a tree has roots it has no womb to conceive life the woodpecker keeps pecking the tree not even considering the tree’s position; the blood oozing out from the tree’s wound becomes limbs, branches, leaves and autumn, as some blood dries and lumps before reaching to wet the roots in the piles of time, the ‘future’ hatched from the eggs that were laid in the tree’s deep wound, now flies in the air carrying ‘today’ on his back; a falling autumnal leaf hanging on a wing of the new generation woodpecker, struggling to stuff the pieces of sky into its hole the woodpecker one generation before pecked, gasping for breath the wind after wandering in the air aimlessly not knowing where to go, calls the cloud drifting across the sky and goes without knowing the story behind the cloud, as they become raindrops and fall to the earth the woodpecker sits on a tombstone, which never had sobbed or wailed loudly, she pecks the stone with her deformed, cracked beak wet in the rain; she scribbles a name of someone dumped after so many years of abuse