Gazing at the heart

The tree holds heart
and life like curdled
blood. It does not wince
when pierced or
let loose a river of any
form when an ax strikes
swift in arteried bark.

But don’t be fooled
by the stoic silence
of the wind-torn. I
have heard the trees
cry out when no one
knew to listen and

watched the cerement
dances of midnight draw
cave art across my walls.
Wind is the author of many
things unseen. Step into
the air and watch how

swiftly you can be changed.

Author's Note

2021