November crawls out of my skin
Leaving my insides naked
And cold
At the bottom of old trees
Whose rough roots toil to keep warm
My soul as it burrows into mud.
Huddled on mountainsides
Bent crooked in wind
Under the first blast of snow
These trees, oh, these trees,
Oh, I hear them laugh and sing
As they shed orange-red leaves before blue-white snow.
Those old trees, they call my name
“Hey!” they shout
“Why are you so dark?
Open your heart!
We trees don’t have one.
How lucky you are.”
Ameen.
William Dudley Bass
9 November 2011
Seattle, Washington
Copyright © 2011, 2016 by William Dudley Bass. All Rights Reserved until we Humans establish Wise Stewardship of and for our Earth and Solarian Commons. Thank you.
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