Silvan Poem

Trees are like wooden tomes,

volumes of the history of Earth


ringlets, snapshots,

centuries in lines

unintelligible, hidden,

concealed under bark

upon layers and layers.

As I walk through the forest

of trees so tall they must surely be

older than the soils from whence they’ve sprung,

I notice only movements

out of order with the vast

and perfect stillness hugging everything,

and of whose tender Song

I am a part,

in my breathing, in my ways,

rising from depths only to mount

with the illusion of importance

vested in my eyes,

but I was once a softer sapling,

sprouting out like a foolish spear,

foolhardy, eccentric,

unimportantly important,

though not in the wise I see.

For I am like the trees

in that I, too, am more ancient than stone;

I, too, derive my heritage

from the suffocated remains

of resilient ancestors

who gave up their lives

in exchange for a Soul,

the gem of the believing,

jewel of the renunciating,

fruit of all endeavours

worth our Time.

I bear this.

It is in me

as the collected rage and Sorrow of a thousand storms

is with the body of the ocean;

as the cry of a gull at its shores

echoes the crack of the Eternity

who birthed the Stars.

What do we know? more ignorant

than the dust gathered, scattered by winds

with the ruthlessness of Mountains,

yet their ancient calm.

Who is immortal? only

tangibly so is it difficult

to recognize my Father

in the grass,

my Mother rising up

in the waves that shall crush me,

releasing me from bondage

as a spruce hewn

off by lightning.