Trees and What They Whisper – Lynette Mejía
I see you through
the leaves, eyes flashing
in sunlight, a deep green only
partially masking the truth;
translucent intention finally revealed
I climb the limbs, smooth
and bright, hardened skin scarred
with loss and chance cruelty, our
names cut into bark but not quite healed
So long ago you put down roots here,
and I but a leaf caught on the wind, a
winged seed calling as the tides
of air took me to mist and bed
And now so much later we twine,
limbs like leafy songs and I know
all the words. I may have been gone
away but I spread with the years, my roots a
fruiting body, this frame an extension
built on the imperfect memory
of trees and what they whisper.
Lynette Mejía writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling Award and the Million Writers Award. You can find her online at www.lynettemejia.com.