Wednesday, September 11, 2013

The Woods

The Woods

Tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, times one thousand,
and there’s your woods. All they can do is grow,

hold up a blowtorch, and they won’t even flinch.
Burn a tree or two, if you’re a bad person, and

the woods don’t even change their expression.
The woods don’t hear our voices. They’re busy

listening to the sun. When you’ve got stars in
your veins, you just take one decade at a time.

3 comments:

  1. like, like, like,like,like

    very nice, mi amiga













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  2. When you’ve got stars in
    your veins, you just take one decade at a time.

    wow! that's great!

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  3. "and there’s your woods"--That has more power for me than I'd have thought.

    Also, our trees have been blowing in rain and thunder this evening. They didn't look as stoic as your poem's trees, but who knows. None fell. Maybe they were shrugging. What was going on in the nests in their upper branches? Do the trees care about the nests more than the woods care about the trees?

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