Middle Third

I wrote this poem after staring at a white pine tree outside of my living room window one rainy morning. I remember seeing the streams of steam coming off of my coffee mug as I had repetitive, cyclical thoughts about how bad the weather was where I was living – Upstate New York. I thought to myself, “You’d think this would be a relaxing scene for someone like me.” This is about coming to terms with my “Grass is Greener” syndrome. We all have a way of thinking there is something better somewhere else, an eden that lies on some unknown horizon. It has a way of blinding us from the life that is always bursting right in front of our eyes.

Middle Third

I have laid here counting
and separating the bark’s ridges
Scouting its valleys and canyons
from a distance

It allows me to stay casted, waiting
patiently to look at the place
where I often close my eyes

Less than halfway up below
the middle third of that tree
are pulses resonating in commiseration

I can only see it if I can hear it

Orchestral and innate
coronations begin to play
adjacent to my mind
It’s not always the tree
but what the branches allow to be done to it

Winds aid the speed of their turns
but its sudden absence
and cloud’s arrival
stops the creaking

It brings a silhouetted,
of my past
The trunk, now too, is shadowed
and lacking distinction
Its view in totality
dried and desolate
as expectations

To stand here now or to sit
choosing a single line of bark
exceptional in its terseness and wilderness
Short and quick, straight to the point
I need to get used to the weather.

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