Yesterday I was desperately trying to contribute to the novel I am currently working on and I must have opened it fifteen times but could not conceive of a single sentence that would add to it so I closed it just as many times. It frustrated me that there was nothing inspired coming to mind with regard to the story or character development so instead of typing I picked up my journal and pen. This is one of my favorite exercises as it tends to free the blockage because I am just frantically writing whatever comes to mind no matter how insane it may read later.
At one point while scribbling away I happened to sprawl out lengthwise on my sofa and glanced out the window at the treetops that are visible out back. I stared at them for quite some time and was instantly inspired by their naked beauty so I threw down a little bit of prose.
Generally when I write poetry it is about me, dreams I have had, feelings I need to purge and for the most part I tend to use words that no one but me understands the true meaning of, although many people can relate to the feeling or tone. Prose in my world tends not to be literal and never about nature but for some reason yesterday was different. I posted this over at my personal blog but got to thinking about it this morning and wanted to share my view of yesterday’s nature with all of you as well. Hope you enjoy it.
The wind blows through the branches
And they sway effortlessly,
Against a backdrop of cloudy sky.
A tree can bow in the
As long as the trunk is sturdy
And the roots are deep.
A shaft of light bursts through
Illuminating the brown bark
Creating shadows for birds
To hide from my eyes.
The light begins to fade
But the tiny tips of the branches
The wind picks up
Branches thrash wildly,
Waving at me inside my home
As if to say ‘pick me for the team’.
Trees do not show emotion
All they do is hold firm.
Years go by,
They see everything
But remember nothing
Except how to flower in the spring.
The monochromatic brown
Suddenly turns to green
Still a singular color palate
Nothing more than the same waving tree,
The same swaying limbs,
Now against a blue sky.
But the branches are hidden
And the leaves show the spirit
That swelled up from deep within the trunk.
The trees may not know how to show joy
But I do.