… i become obsessed with trees that look like this. Yes their beauty is undeniable when they are covered in foliage, in bloom, welcoming birds, but beneath this sometimes deciduous clothing, they are each so unique. Like voices soar from their skyward reaching branches, each with their own story to tell. They look as though they are screaming. Forbidden to escape the bitterly cold floor. Crying for help. Complaining. Speaking to each other. Talking of the season’s past. Of their now gone inhabitants from the warmer months.
They ache in the cold. The strong ones look as though they still climb. Limbs frozen stiff and yet proud in the chilling wind; some laugh, birds still with nests in their boughs. There are those short and spreading outwards, like a head of tousled hair; spiny, maybe jealous ones (trees) stick out the most, scream the loudest, look evil, like they travel in hoards during the night, lurking, changing the land with the hands of their shadows on the moonlit ground; some, whose trunks are kept warm by thick vines or fat moss are asking “why us?”, while there are a few others, ever green that stare in pompousness, overbearing, laughing from deep inside their thick trunks, perhaps taunted by the rest, willing a logger to cut them dead. Lifeless.
Back to nothing.
Punished for their arrogance. – For although some remain the same face for each year after year, the others become individuals at this time. Expressions of the land, and their very existence. The fact that they remain, attached to the earth, promises the fact that they will once again be dressed in the same uniform as all of their kind.
Part of the crowd again.
Only separated by the earth’s language.
Inaudible, invisible to our ears.
Speaking quietly again.
One familiar voice…