The Inverse

I thought I saw the tree with branches open, drawing breath inside its leaves. I sought him closer to the stars. I though him blind, I thought him sad. When the night came round, I drew him in my dream: arm by arm, ring for wrong.

An inverse tree was there, looking back at me. Its roots are branches bare. They eat in greed every light, they run deep above the skin, upside down and inside out. There’s no time, there is no face. I searched for the ones beneath.

My nails dig deep beneath his shelter. From my wrist to my shoulder my muscles frown. With the back of my heel I learn them all: the storm, the wind, the worm. Hidden, I am seen.

The unfortunate immobility is not a curse, it is a voice of something never asked. When none was called, the roots appeared. Arms wide-spread into the sky are feeding the branches deep within.

And I, standing here, where green grass sprouts, I’m neither there nor here. I am caught between a polar definition of a tree’s feeding process. The only way to know up from down is not to question it anymore.

Do what you must when fire needs the tree.