When We’re Not Watching

When We’re Not Watching

The tree’s wood ages even when

We’re not watching. Growing

Layers upon layers as Father flawlessly ticks and

Turns the perpetual gears beyond my control.

The genius prances on the stage

Of life, through the delicate dande

Lion field. She grew up with the flowers, who

Were so blithe, and blessed, and bright, and

Beyond her, you

See. They witnessed her first steps, and

Will definitely wait for

When she flings her mortarboard into the air. Because

They were there for her, and she was there for

Her, too. And she is also well-read; easily

Immerses herself in literature that traverses through time’s

Wisdom---and intelligent! Did I mention what a 

Genius she is? You’d think she

Could predict the future! But you won’t

Know when she turns 1 and ¾ of a

Decade, the carnivores are out to hunt.

And for all her wisdom, she had slept

Soundly through the predatory night.

Father had muttered under his cold, chilling breath,

“Not her time, not her time…” and it wasn’t, even though

Lightning struck and cracked and split the

Wood, revealing every ceaseless tick and

Turn etched into its bark, and before any

Flinging, of the boards or the mortars,

I am struck by the fact that the dande

Lions have all been blasted away, and my creophagous

Father, at midday, had scorched my field for

Miles to come.

The tree’s wood continues to age even

When we’re not watching.

I am fortunate enough to know now that

I can never have my dandelions back.

Author's Note

written: Nov 2025