The cynic in me feels a storm raging on a cloudless day.
Said day begs me to see its potential:
“I can sift the silk from the spider”
Said day swears.
Of course it cannot.
The tree in the forest has fallen
Whether we’ve acknowledged the rot in its stump,
Weak roots pulled taut and tired.
The branches are barren
And still we are demanding silk of the spider?
Still we are waiting for the devil to do good.
Perhaps it is the silence
After every bough has bowed gracefully in solitude
That the whole earth will remember
What it really was
And what it was not.
postscript// if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it...
