Let’s Make Parables of Trees


    Turn a leaf and scour for a surprise.
    Perhaps, find a caterpillar there, gorging
    on its greenness. Graceful, luminous.
    Because isn’t that what our mothers
    tell us? That life is what we make it?
    Rival the valiant caterpillar that makes
    leaf its sustenance. Pleads for revision.
    Then wills itself into a winged bud. Not
    for the thrill of colors, but the deliverance
    of flight. We ought to make parables
    that exude light. Or vessels through
    which spirits pass. Breeze, rainwater,
    the brown translucency of honey. Snap
    a twig and traverse the slow channeling
    of day into fire. Turn shriveled branches
    into roof. Challenge a trunk to a game
    of standing ground. Win or lose, it’ll make
    our mothers beam and our fathers sigh
    with relief. Finally, climb a bough or let
    our feet take root in the ground. Doesn’t
    matter now. The inevitable begins. By then,
    we shall have willed ourselves into trees.


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