Just a Tree
Just a Tree
When the first fingers of light start to summon back earth’s vibrant greens,
You and He both stir.
I hear you prick through your brittle shell
and the sound is a thistle prickling cellophane.
It echoes effortlessly through the silent air,
a thousand thistles
prickling the morning hello,
prickling through open windows,
prickling his roused ears.
But He only hears the prickle of the beard He scratches,
the crackle of the scabby eyes He rubs.
I hear the crumbs of soil like beetles being startled awake
hastily scrambling and shuffling
to make space for you.
They coax your delicate shoot up the tunnel
out of the dark
towards life.
But He only hears the scramble
of heavy footsteps down stairs,
only hears the shuffle
of coffee grinds
that coax him out of sleep.
I hear your confusion like punching heartbeats as you reach the surface
overwhelmed with an onslaught of instinct,
you begin toiling with all your might to grow the beginnings of
your first dew drop leaf.
Furiously guzzling water,
Frantically gulping sunbeams
in a rhythmic frenzy
that I can hear.
guzzle, gulp, grow
guzzle, gulp, grow
Surely he can, too?
But he is busy
guzzling down his orange juice
gulping up his flabby eggs
and the clatter of cup and plate
cuts through your commotion like
cannon fire through cotton uniforms.
I hear the creak of growth leak from your tendons
An old dock’s warning of an impending storm.
I hear the grunts of every sinew, cord, and strand
as they are tugged and stretched to compensate for
a new branch there,
added length here.
The grunts soar and resonate,
like the muffled, throaty complaints of marathoners
that can be heard
miles before the finish line.
But He has his own muscles to stretch,
his own knuckles to pop
and even then, maybe, He could have heard
if He had shown any restraint in the mighty roar He let escape his lips
a whimper of leathering skin, of rigid back, of lengthening bathroom visits.
No.
He did not hear.
I hear the clapping of your many leaves;
padded hands,
An auditorium of gentle applause.
But it is drowned out by the clap of worker’s helmet,
the snap of buckles on boots.
I hear your panicked plea—the wind’s commiseration—
It rushes through your crevices,
into your rivulets of bark,
flapping your leaves,
convulsing your branches,
to create one shrieking howl of desperation.
But it does not quite pierce
the shriek of the engine
as it chokes into a steady rumble.
I hear your fiery capitulation
as you will every branch, every twig, every hair-thin fiber in your trunk
to snap
all at once.
It reverberates over the hills,
rippling every pool of water,
wrenching the hair from every neck nearby,
a clap of spine-chilling thunder,
a crack of a whip from the heavens,
halting all noise
mid chirp
mid croak
mid sneeze,
mid engine rumble.
YES
He has finally heard.
For a moment,
his ears prick up
his salt eyes soften
his jaw line retreats
his lips part and form a slippery O
“Oh”, He whispers, loud enough for only you and He to hear.
For a moment,
as you lay sprawled, a macerated scarecrow,
you think He understands.
“Oh”, He grumbles again.
“Oh”, this time with more resolve.
“It’s just a tree.”
He restarts the engine.
And the Bulldozer roars back
to life.