My soul opens as the fired trees pass, glimmers against glass, moments I will be awed by yet ultimately, fail to remember, so common they become. Hours from the city I become quiet and still, my heart and body stilled by the absolute of a world not tied to hydro lines or paper. All I can explain it by is stillness, like a quake of non movement, silk across my lips.
It comes this winter, and with it we shed the colored skins of where we’ve been, of heat, of tempered mornings in the quick light. The season rolls across to us, reaches out her fingers to mouth
as we blink back, crazy to think we’re here already, hadn’t the trees just begun to bud? Hadn’t we just been soothed by the joy of those new green leaves, waving in the breeze which smelled sweet like our youth did, once? Wasn’t I just here, toes in cool water, ice cream rivulets down your chin?
Weren’t we just here?
How can time be a highway like this, a soothed balm to a soul and yet stuck in high gear, and spinning faster and faster as we question, if this is my last year, would these burning trees be enough? If this was the last glimpse I have of our fair land, is it honestly judged? Have I danced my thanks through starlight, a pale worship, but an honest one?
Have I understood?
It makes me quiet, the growth, the creeping sleep that overtakes the land as I watch, bemused and shocked, how time rakes across, how time is blind and carefree. It gives me pause.
What is a soul undone, if nothing more than a free spirit in trees?