Innocence splintered when I watched the tree branch fall
Sleeping in tight corners
the wind , the rain, the mourning trees—
they all spoke my name as I heard them cry out.
But in those sounds—the creaking, the whining and pounding—
the whistling of the wind between leaved and branches.
There was clarity in the possibility of death
so that we may all sing laments neither for us, nor for our souls
but for the nature in which, through language we have left.
And I left it, staying within safety, if there was any to be had,
understanding the difference I, a product of selection, shared
But in passing, in seeing the destruction and its forms
I returned to the woods, to the breath of what we know and saw,
fear in m own eyes
in the frailty of nature, and of myself through a birth of civility.
If you'd like to know what I had in mind while writing this, or what it is about just ask. I don't want to write it here in case someone likes interpreting it alone.