Was that photographed tree
Standing strangely tall above the tree line
An old soul of a sapling
Was he?
Were the smallest birds smart
Drawing near to his clear air up there
Beckoned by his branches -come, play!
Were they?
Will people seek solace
Called by common-ground conscience
Hearing his cry -come up high!
I cannot ask anymore
I’m not bored
I’m just
Batting at baubles
Hanging from the Christmas tree
Stretching and such
Playing coy
Biding my time
Until
That other cool cat comes back
I am your oak tree
As I stand beside your knee
Will you speak to me
Not with hatchets in your eyes
But with birds’ nests on your mind
And honeybees so kind
Care for my green arms
Feel my shade protect from harm
Small Tree and The Sea
Windswept, stand nevertheless
For they are true friends
All we want
for the ones we love
is for the rock that knocks
them from their tree
to be Ordained
and fit perfectly
in their palm
as they climb their way back up.
May it be just so
for any and all
who hear our prayer.
The Whales hold the words
And Light can name the beauty
My language fails me
I know all the places that I want my feet to roam
To start with, I bow down at the tall Tree that I call Home
My eyes intoxicated by each knot where I fall short
I think my tree’d endulge me a slow swing and a high fort
I’ll want no fancy curtains and no spark’ling countertops
In this fort all I’d wish for are our books and the treetops
And please, two chairs, two cups and tea in case I receive guests
Then one last thing, a strong table where roaming feet should rest
LisaRosier.com 