The others return after a long absence
to char meat; smoke chases
me into my room and
I dream an infestation
tiny red ants
swarming into crevices
at the edge of sight.
And the return of black
seeking oblivion, certain
the termination of life
my life
the only possible path.
Even though I know
soul-deep
that, first, death is not the end;
my ancestors chatter at me constantly
as we swim the vital river
and second, what is overwhelming
my senses is
not mine.
Grace flowing yesterday and
today I must be on my guard
again, no longer breathing in
ringing harmonics of om
while feeling into the music
of trees rooting beneath me.
Instead the crash
from the depths of the forest-
planet
stripped,
razed
in a greedy profit grab.
What do we think
we are doing?
Unseen
a shoot emerges from the stump,
as our human bodies turn
into compost for new trees.
The functioning whole teaches
giving.
Taking
— a plastic rootless
illusion —
will not survive
the flood of life.
Inspired by: Oblivion, Termination, Flood, Plastic and Crash.
Wow. That’s a pretty tangled up root system. Frankly I kind of like the idea of being part of what goes into making a tree live for might as well be forever compared to the average human life expectancy. Imagine the opportunity to come and water that which you helped give life to.. Amazing isn’t it?
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