Trees
How many postcards? Calendars. Framed Ansel Adams prints.
Documentaries with people strapped to them, willing to die.
The source of our oxygen. The reason lungs breathe in and out.
Habitat of the loftiest and most noble of all the earth's creatures.
And yet…
most susceptible to lightning. Axes. The need for toothpicks.
Not to mention drywall. We make oars from dead bodies to push
ourselves across the very substance they cannot live amidst,
seated in vessels made of the same.
This thing that fire most wants to eat, we write our novels against.
We lick a stamp, and press it on what once lived for centuries --
thanklessly dying that we might wish Uncle Ted a happy birthday.
Some of them throwing shadows when Shakespeare dipped a quill.
And yet…
Not one of these have ever even known that they were alive.
We, who are so very much aware, but so less useful in our elements,
who are we to think that not only shall we live on this planet,
but also forever after endure -- endlessly, on another far greater one?
And yet…
we do. Some do think this.
© Ciprianowords, Inc. 2016
