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Who Doesn't Love A Good Tree

written by: Michael Shea



I’ve often found myself caught up in your breath,
swaying to some autistic like mantra; to ebb and flow.
I hear music in your exhalations, like the ocean sighing;
to and fro.

I disdain such emanations that discuss you as rustle,
such inadequacies put forth to conjure each appendage;
every vein, capillary and leaf caught up in the hustle and bustle.

I adore your Romanesque stature as you adorn yourself to the sky,
with column un-truncated to flow by Fibonacci designs, one bisected
turn twisted and formed eloquently; so pleasing to the eye.

I once would have climbed you, losing myself in your majesty and form.
I know so well your smell my memories fingers intimate with your texture.
The contours of your skin, my own from climbing you well-worn.

I’ve played marbles with my friends in the crevice of your roots,
stolen fruits from your lower boughs like conkers; for a game of string
and secret recipes won when somebody successfully shoots.

But now like you my wisdom allows my pleasures to adapt,
from memories of games once played; of times spent in your house I stayed.
I sense now joy in the knowing you are still there, and relish in your ample shade.
Thank you for these gifts you gave.

Michael Shea

Michael Shea

I am a behavior therapist slash philosopher author living in rural Queensland
Michael Shea

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