Wind in the Ash

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