I know silence,
I breathe silence,
I am silence.
But when the harsh winds streak
among the ash,
when the leaves are stripped green,
when gaunt tarnished limbs hiss resilience,
I must humbly bow my head,
and whisper,
to the fallen bark and leaves,
lift my petty eyes,
to the bones of trees,
and whimper.
For it is not I
that rises unto time,
it is the coiled fiber,
the heartwood
and sheer elevation
of living into which
I can never reach,
but with clenched teeth
and torn grateful hands,
I climb
upon that
which endures
regardless.
Image: Gray Trees on Grassland – Abhay Vyas
Wind in the Ash
5 thoughts on “Wind in the Ash”
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I keep coming back to this, eventually I will formulate a response worthy to it.
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David, thank you. You needn’t feel compelled to comment further. Knowing that it has touched you is response enough. Go well and happy. D
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Speaks of the strength we can muster from the sheer beauty of things and from those around us, there is so much to feed our souls if only we raise our eyes.
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Absolutely, David. And in times of transition, such as this Autumn, all of it is on display right in front of our, collectively speaking, downturned eyes.
D
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Probably your most haunting piece I’ve read.
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