11 October 2007, 8:14 AM
It hurts an awful lot, and howls,
when the wind picks up and the bark
grows thick; the bite, sharp.
It’s hard to feel much through the layers
of dead brown, pealing away. One has to trust
the next layer will be closer to sage-
otherwise (or even so) there’s suffering to be had,
and tears, with age. Wisdom comes thus.
She keeps on,
though at times she thinks she’d be grateful
if some wood-wanderer would finally
fell her so she wouldn’t have to fight anymore
to reveal her skin, wouldn’t have to struggle so
to see the inward rage- separate the present
from the past; gentle rain from pelting fires of hell.
She’d failed to hope they could not last forever.
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