An old man
stands in front of an old tree,
hands folded behind his back,
contemplating its form.A mutual awe,
as the branches reach trying to understand his mind.
“What is it that you see old man?†asks the tree “Can you hear me? Can you see my life? The millions of lives intertwined with mine,
all still moving, existing, in me? Am I brown to you old man?
Or do you see my colors? My rainbows, my translucent parts,
built from your life, from all the lives?
I remember you, old man,
I remember your father
and your father’s father
even, old man, his father.
I am built of all of them,
and you, old man, are built of me.
Can’t you see old man?
Can’t you see? â€The old man’s eyes
Search the bark of the old tree,
for a moment he had thought,
there entangled in centuries of growth,
of rigid brown bark, a flash of pink.
the old man and the tree
