Tree Kind
I fell from one
Once and again
And in the breath
I struggled to take
Back again
I still called you
Friend
I cannot make flesh
That has its own
Or invent a spirit
When already imbued
The tree breathes
Out its own
Tree Kind
I fell from one
Once and again
And in the breath
I struggled to take
Back again
I still called you
Friend
I cannot make flesh
That has its own
Or invent a spirit
When already imbued
The tree breathes
Out its own
In conversation, I prefer Christopher. My mom named me after Christopher Robin, after all. In writing, I use “C L Couch” (or, more simply, “c l couch”) because the form is genderless and also frankly easier to use. I have awful writer’s cramp. I am an educator more or less retired, more or less due to disability. At present, I live in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania (USA). My writing here I mean to be occasional and also devotional. Either or both. The banner and profile photographs are by my friend and peer Debra Danielson. More of Debbie’s work to be enjoyed is at debradanielson.org. Thanks to each of you and both and all for coming to my blog.
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February 2, 2016 at 3:04 am
I felt sad after reading this poem. I hope my mind interpreted it right.
February 2, 2016 at 1:45 pm
It starts with falling from a tree, so that’s sad. And I might romanticize the tree. But whether or not I do, the tree is going to have its own life, anyway. Which is sad as far as romanticizing goes.