If we trace our history in trees,
I guess the sky would be our home –
skeleton limbs raised to moon’s cold stone.
Will they etch it on my tombstone
that I saw the world in t(h)rees?
– ocean, silence, home.
Will you build me a home
to climb to, a quiet corner stone
to hold my head, some small shade trees?
Of stones, I am unthrown; in trees, I’m home.
Still hanging in there at NaPoWriMo (day 7). Wanna play?
Love the thought of the sky and trees as home.
I want “a home / to climb to,” too!
This is wonderful.
Nice Tritina! I love that you didn’t stick to a specific meter as that would have been all wrong for the carefree feel of a poem about being at home in trees.
Sounds like heaven to me. 😘
“Will they etch it on my tombstone
that I saw the world in t(h)rees?”
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