still, none the wiser (poetry)

hollow

a tree stands tall in the middle of

the forest.

ivy grows around her ankles

like shackles around the doomed.

she sways and swivels and stays

forever in her place.

bound to the ground by

roots and blood,

but so close to the clouds

she can almost touch them.

almost.

she has her seasons,

and she knows them well.

she feels the sun on her

leaves in the summer,

and she feels them

leaving her in the fall.

the winter is rough and lonely,

but she can see so much farther

in the cold.

spring is a time of

birth, of new meetings,

of color.

the tree wears these changes

like scarves,

and looks forward to them

as she's forever bound to look

towards the forest.

she feels so much, so fully

that she knows every vein

of the cool rocks beneath her.

she is friends with every bird

living up in her leaves.

she has so much life coursing

through her wooden heart,

yet she never moves.

she is okay with

living as if she was just a

tree in a forest.

she never begs,

never reaches,

never asks for more.

still, sometimes she wishes

to know better than

just the seasons, the clouds.

sometimes she wishes her roots

went so far deep, so far wide,

that she knew the whole world

and all its stories.

but she has learned over the long,

long years that

wishing doesn't get you

any further than the wind does.

only rustling your branches

once in a while, but it

makes you feel like

you can fly.

she knows she cannot fly.

so she stands, tall and still,

and she looks at everything

she's ever known.

her everything, her all,

is not enough.

she learns this quietly,

because that's all she's ever done.

but she feels it

roaring, rushing ruthlessly

through her deepest roots,

and she'll feel it until she is hollow.

-V