all of the trees are straight and tall and their tops bow gently to the sky

if i could speak
with music,
maybe i could
translate feeling
into understanding.

were i able to
talk in color,
it might be
this would allow me
the power of
conveyance.

it isn’t fair or
accurate,
to say these words
are inadequate,
no.
these words are
all i have and
yes, these words
do not seem to carry
all i ask of them.

spilling, over
the sides,
as they go.

it reminds me of
steeples, steeples
we build in reverence,
of the unreachable house.
steeples, shouting against
the distance of our sky.

trees, but it is trees
that bring the sky
down to us.
trees that can bear
so much magnificent
weight. we
take the trees
and turn them
to inconsequence,
the pointed need of
our steepling.

you see?
the words
leave a trail
wherever they go,
never can they
take their burden fully,
from one place
to another.
always, always
they leave
something of us
along the way.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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