I am located in a park, where I am contemplating adjacent trees.
One tree in particular has caught my attention.
With each thought I feel ever more at one with this tree.
How can I contemplate trees without becoming one?
Just think what happened to Narcissus, who turned into a daffodil.
Or the nymph Daphne, who became a laurel tree.
What's so bad about being a tree anyway?
Is not it a good thing to put down roots?
But what about the loss of mobility that would follow?
Trees have carefree lives, though.
No taxes, rushing to work, paying bills.
On the other hand in my present state
I need not worry about woodworm, acid rain, being pruned,
woodpeckers or serving the needs of leg-lifting dogs.
And family affairs? Hmm.. Do I want my kids to be nuts?
It's all very well to branch out - in metaphoric terms, that is.
Oh, that board meeting! It’s time to go.
Hey, my limbs are stiff.
I can’t move my trunk. My fingers are green.
Silly thought, no one turns into a tree these days!
Aaaaahhhhh!
Swish, swish. Rustle rustle..
...inspired by 'Piktor's Metamorphoses' by Hermann Hesse
Stepping through a vale she spied an oak,
its branches scratching heaven's glow
and anchored to the earth its twisted roots
clawed deeply through the soil below.
Embracing now its weathered bark she found
her scrawny body stretched from stern to stem,
her very blood the sap which seethed within
and energized the giant denizen.
She was at once the tomboy and the tree,
photosynthesis and flesh and bone
to reach the spheres, the bowels of earth
both bodies joined, the fusion done.
She was one with insect and with bird,
the wind and rain conjoined and made her wife
to all of nature, sea and sky,
to hail the consanguinity of life.
metamorphosis
-you see roots of light, filaments:
it's a miracle speeding ponderously, splendorously
where a congregation of stars transfigure into a winged-galaxy
and spiral-Angels glitter in your eyes --
dancing between every wondrous thing
in time and space matters,
orbiting infinitely in
where every round thing begins --
first-light at the edge of the fatal-skin you're in
rises in longing swells, the measure of your heart;
a nebulae of mystery, the numinous light of peregrinated stories --
from stars we come to stars we shall return,
this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn,
to shine on 'n on from inside out,
where illumination is a fire without any doubt
I'm not worried, now, she is beautiful
no need to hurry, now, she never dies
in infinite nights, she is carried far and away ...