Like a bad love story you know it when you see it.
That’s the one. Perfectly casting that inviting path
to it’s beautiful crevices. Maybe rough, or smooth
in many tones like the beauty of a birch. This isn’t
read in profitable parchment, or spoken in institution.
It is felt. Aristotelian within which we cannot explain,
maybe a transplant from that spirit we think we know.
It desires to be held with arms outreached, flourishing
it’s insulating warmth. Creating beautiful rigidness.
Watch it soak. Pulling you into it’s soulful base.
Ignoring second thoughts puts you against it’s tempting
surface, feeling life travel through your fingertips. Listen
closely. Ear resting on it’s outer, so much alive on the
inside as much as out. Reach and feel a protrusion.
Pulling yourself up and into that desirable place, far
away from distraction. Feel your head develop liquid,
as life is recycled amongst it. Travel up, deeper into the
cooling warmth. That last step perhaps the hardest,
always sooner than expected as pace is hardly determined.
Breathe in the freshness of the loving air, holding on tight.
Enduring relaxation in the towering embrace, a perspective
achieved in the red-tail’s place. Like love at first sight,
some which stand before cannot resist a climb.
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