A tree of poets.
It is just as you imagine.
Murmurs spiral from the leaves
Made of glass spun from words
And silence
And land deftly onto the pages
Below.
This is the tree under which poets
Sit and pull words from their veins.
The Poet Tree is where we come to
Find the fissure in our mind’s skin to
Thread out phrases loud enough to
Make us still as we watch our
Fingers warm hour after hour.
This is where we come to place our
pens in the palms of others and
Trust them to protect our words as
They are the only defense we have.
Each of us has a soul of mirrors
And glass that reflect ideas and pull
Others through.
The Poet Tree is silent until we
Find out glass is cracked
And our mirrors are shattered
And nothing poetic can come from
Destruction anymore.
At nightfall we are trembling
But by daybreak we compose a
Piece that stills our hands and mutes
The cacophony in our hearts.
Let us be translucent again.
Those by the Poet Tree are scattered.
Some are nestled up between the
Silent cold branches where words
Dart overhead, chiming the glass leaves
As they swoop past.
Up there, words are at their
Fingertips but only if they stretch
Far enough
Some lay sprawled out
On the paper leaf pages where
The tails of sentences
Rustle the ground and
Poke at their ears.
The swish of their shoes create a
Melody of silence dense enough to
Create something new.
At the Poet Tree our wrists, now
Flushed and empty have been
Painted with smears of Times New Roman
And ballpoint ink
And at last, we have found home.