The Tree of Life
I am laying here alone in my bed tonight,
or should I simply say "I am" --
the where or when being secondary
to the undeniable fact
that the paper I now find myself writing on
used to be a tree.
Birds once sang in its branches,
in the winter it stood naked,
in the summer it gave shade.
This tree that is now my book
had big green leaves and small white flowers.
When the wind blew through them,
you could almost hear the sound of forever.
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:30 AM | Comments (0)
