Sunday, July 25, 2010

conversation, tree.

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Today, in a breeze, on a cemetery bench;
in the shade that held the sunshine,
and underneath a tree
I heard, or saw, or felt something.
I think that "Something" was Grace;
though I can't be sure
(I think that "Grace" is the wrong word).
This thing I can't quite name was very
non-threatening, and boldly un-threatened
by the darkening night in my soul;
it just....was.

This feeling (or presence) of Grace (or whatever I've called it)
didn't pick a certain spot. It didn't claim any land
or loudly announce itself; it simply
(quite simply)
                   was.
As if It were waiting to be noticed. By me?
No. But maybe.

Oh! It seems...over there...that tree.
Is it the tree? Or is it the space in the air between that tree and me?
It's something....there's something here.
I'm crazy.

It's the breeze,
or the light that moves inside it,
or the air over the dirt below the bench and me.
Please; please
tell me I'm not entirely mad;
that perhaps I might not be
entirely crazy.

But would a crazy person
...feel stared at by a tree?
Or do the sanest folks feel
made aware of by the leaves?

No, I know that I'm not crazy
(not by professional standards, at least).
And yet, no matter how I place myself on the
cemetery bench,
the air seems quite moved
...to meet me.

I wonder if I see in the wind
what I want to see,
or if I see what's actually there.
Or if I see in a tree what
I want to see,
or if the tree (or the space between the tree and me)
is, truly, aware.

©afterthoughtcomposer
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4 comments:

Colin and Evelyn said...

I wish there were 4 Ashley poems a day, because I would read them each 4 times over.
E.

Elizabeth said...

i'm not sure that i've read enough of your writing to say this, but as far as i've read, this is my favorite so far.

afterthoughtcomposer said...

wow - thank you both,
a.

Mama said...

I've always loved trees.

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.
Isaiah 55:12