Im walking,
on the wet, mushy dew of the morning’s first cry.
Somewhere in the forrest I stand.
There it is,
the tree.
The blue of it’s bark draws all attention and the purple tipped leaves dance in rhythm with one another.
It’s song plays through the other trees,
but those trees aren’t the same.
I stand there from a distance,
closer and closer I come,
’til it’s beauty is just a step away.
From here I can see the birds smile up in the branches smeared with gold.
Each gust of wind sweeps the ground clean and welcomes my steps.
I look at the tree.
Eye on fresh wood, next to it I stand.
With thorough examination I walk around to the back.
The air drops frigid and forbids me from proceeding,
but I know this tree well;
I keep walking.
The birds have flown elsewhere to the other mediocre tree tops,
sketchy,
but I know this tree well.
Behind the tree I finally stand
just to find,
it is hollow,
empty and dark.
I leave quickly without a word.

(years ahead I’m back)

It’s my first time coming back to my old friend in a while.
Next to the tree I stand.
Deceiving and cunning,
how I was tricked.
I still hear the ringing of bird songs that now circle the air intrepidly.
Closer and closer I come,
’til it’s beauty is just a step away.
I knew this tree well.
It’s branches swing beside me and beg for forgiveness,
but I knew this tree too well,
and it still looks the same.