wind(ing)

knotted hands again against
your stomach and
mid-left rib or
perhaps your throat

rubbing scars between your arms
allowing

underneath soft soil we might slumber
but then ruminate on moving upward
and chew our way to the surface
to breath
following the roots of the trees
our guides

wrinkled and wise, they are
delirious and delicately resilient

and alien

nothing could be prettier than
their buddings
faced against the Sun, they neither hide
nor crumble
but rejoice in the electric pleasure
life

how humble

yet in our envy
we cut them down
our hubris thinking thought and
belief of more importance

the trees are not deluded
but what has ignorance helped
their bark and now-paper?
they've been part and parcel, both

only loving cultures or
counter cultures
help bring back what's been eluded
and alluded to

what is recovery, anyway?

one, two