Untitled Song

Hawthorn, or oak, maybe

Standing lonely

in the middle of a clearing

in the forest of your hometown

 

At the base of the tree

there was a section

lifted roots parting like curtains

in front of the windows to your soul

 

A tale told amongst the locals:

if you were to walk along the forest path

going towards the tree—

it would listen to your sorrows

 

If you go alone

you curl up at the base of the tree

and if you listen carefully

a soft breeze would be whispering through the branches

 

Tell it your tale

speak your secrets

break your silence

and it will weep for you

 

The branches are empty

yet heavy with the burdens

of a thousand or more tragedies

its gnarled trunk bent into reverent prayer

 

On a cloudy day the wind gently sweeps the grasses aside

to grant passage to whomever may choose to enter

resting in the comfort of its shade

 

If you were to regale it of your tale

droplets of water would gently fall

and come to rest on your scalp

teardrops soft as mist

 

You share a secret—

an ancient sigh

a pained groan

splintered bark

 

Petrified wood