Broken Bough


Let me tell you a story that is very wrong…

The bough of my tree is gone. You know?
That branch from which everything else seems to grow.
The branch, that without, the trees oddity screams widely in the forest.
The branch that holds mighty the trunk and all the other branches look up to.
The branch whose beauty captures no words.

Well…it’s gone.
Harshly ripped from its dwelling place.
Bark and wood hang limp and brittle.
Sharp and coarse, they rub against my skin, texturing me bloody.

I stare at my tree.
It looks wrong.
It looks empty.
It’s quite simple really, something is missing that should be there.

I don’t bother to get my tools.
By the looks of things, this is something I cannot fix.
The emptiness boasts its existence.

So, I let bewilderment accompany me here, and together we stare.

After some time, I ask Bewilderment if I should be doing something.
You know, just doing something.
Bewilderment looks at me blankly.

Sticky and red, the weeping sap pushes its way to my surface.
It’s staining my skin.
I’m changing colour.
A permeant dye that will not reverse.

I feel now that I am a shadow of the green that I once was.

I want to move.
I want to leave the boasting echoes of this place.
But I cannot move.
Bewilderment holds me here.

My body is laboured with the pain of the incident.
A dark, vibrant memory, cut deep into my muscles.
Only now do I wonder how much the boughs break tore from my limbs.

Bewilderment flickers to Wonder and it dawns on me…
If I were a boat and not a tree, I would be lost at sea.
For my stars of navigation are gone.


( PHOTO: Three tall pine trees stood in our backyard. I used to play in them as a kid. Shortly after Dad died, they too were at their point of death and we had to cut them down. Pictured here is the stump from where once, life had stood.)

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