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Objets Trouvés
Brown ochre trees ogre the hillside.
Open spindles of the forest.
Threads embrace, shake, and kiss.
The wind howls to the moon; an eternal waving dance.
Trees rooted in the brown ground reach to the heavens above.
Trees the towers of the forest.
Trees the stink-lines of the forest.
I see the forest for the trees
And the trees for the forest.
A posse of brown-ochre trees tower over the hillside like silent, resting ogres. Some naked, some clothed in ivy, their skin winding and fluid like a spiraling dream upward; but wrinkly, chipping, cold, and hard as a rock. In the dead of winter, they are spindles unraveled, threads snapped and broken like twine; but reaching towards one another like friends unclothed, bare of spring and summer leaves and flowers, bare of the brush and the fuss; threads poking, prodding the other's soul; and a smile worth the world. A wave of wind washes through the brusque. With a howl, the giants begin to waver to and fro, sweeping and dancing, filling the air with the dust of dreams from the sky. Roots grounded in the soil of earthen birth, the dust of dreams coats the ground like snow. The melted drips of dreams seeps to the roots of the trees, growing them taller and taller and reaching them higher and higher towards the heavens. But broken threads outstretched embrace friends.
As I walk throughout the forest with my friends, my gaze sets upon the heavens above. But my arms outstretched embrace lovers and companions. But my feet walk upon the soil of the earth, making footprints in the snow.
Trees the towers of the forest,
Trees the stink-lines of the forest,
I see the forest for the trees. And the trees for the forest.
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