(A tree is its own notes.)

the shapes


I went out to stand for a moment under the blue sky. Behind the garden shed, a dead cedar, brought down on Wednesday by 3 men in the rain. A living tree died, its length bucked into logs, each one so beautiful I want them to stay in this gallery of open air, green salal, perfumed by the resin. Forget the fire, forget the trip across rough ground to the woodshed. Behind the garden shed, a towhee is searching in the new sawdust.



Take a minute to rest your hand on the surface. Run your finger along the edge of the heartrot, its spongy decay. You could count the rings. If you’d ever kept the kind of weather notes you meant to, you could match the rings with drought and rain. (A tree is its own notes.)



Behind the garden shed, there is a portal, a view of time released from its vertical tyranny. You kneel in your nightdress, under blue sky, and look through.

From this window, like the moon
I keep sending news secretly. (Rumi)

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