A caution tape whispers across branches,
knotted yellow like a bruise
sinking into the skin of bark,
a warning in a language older than words.
It pulls taut around the trunk,
an awkward belt, a broken promise,
the tree dressed in a makeshift vest
that mutters: Do not enter.
But what are we warning against?
The quiet rot beneath bark?
The sharp twigs that clutch the sky
like outstretched hands?
Or something deeper, unseen,
the way roots tunnel, tangled in secrets,
holding things the earth will not let go?
In defiance, a leaf flutters,
green against the yellow stripe,
an act of rebellion, or just the wind—
a reminder that even warnings fray,
even caution fades.
Yet still, the tape flutters,
a fence of fluttered flags,
binding nothing, holding only itself,
as the tree stands, silent, alive,
bearing its caution,
bearing us all.
