Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas.
Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.
- Federico Garcia Lorca, 1899-1936
What kind of times are they, when
A talk about trees is almost a crime
Because it implies silence about so many horrors?
- Bertolt Brecht, To Those Born Later
A tree does not move unless there is wind.
- Afghan Proverb
An ancient oak tosses her green body. Clouds gather. She breathes her love in halted air. The sky opens. Acorns drop. The larvae of moths live in them. Jays and squirrels collect and cache them. Some are carried in the intestines of animals. Others germinate, becoming the forest’s understory.
A darkened sky: no
time for parables. red oak
sighs, acorns scatter.
written for One Single Impression, beginning
and Haiku Heights, struggle