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Climbing Trees

The feel of bark under my nails
weak branches bend and groan,
determined, I reach for the top
then perch there, all alone.

The cleansing wind among the leaves
drowns every sound and thought
and blows away on blessed breathe
the “do’s” and “no, do not’s.”

Among the canopy of green
concealed from ground and men,
I cry and wish to fly away,
‘fore climbing down again.

10/11/15

changeflyingfreedomlongingsolitudequatrain

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Francis J Grasso

May 28, 2016 at 6:37 AM

This poem brings back sweet childhood memories of mine. I had this tree I would climb early Sunday mornings. I was eight or nine years old at the time. I'd watch people going and coming from all of the services at the neighborhood church, hidden from their sight among the branches. Eight o'clock Mass, nine o'clock Mass, ten o'clock Mass. All morning I would sit and watch, contemplating whether I should go to Mass that day, or not. Thanks for a great write, The Grahamburgler. ...Fran