Member-only story
A Writer’s Nature
Listen! Listen, as nimble fingers tap
Staccato beats across the keys,
Pausing —
A caesura before pouncing, trouncing!
Clash! go the dissonant thoughts,
The clamoring words.
What a mumbling jumble as letters,
They tumble!
How freeing it’s been, divorcing
Sense for Seuss and reason for raisins —
The tiniest taste of mint-flavored paste.
Feral words run roughshod
Through hallowed halls,
Where tusks of long-dead mammoths droop
In shame. No one’s to blame;
Except —
Maybe —
The man who first figured out
That if we chopped and ground the solid stump
Of a stolid tree in a heartless machine,
We could pour out our longing,
Our lush, verdant forest dreams,
Our love —
For nature (and one another) —
Upon the corpse of a tree
We never stopped to hug.
Whose branches we never climbed
So that we could see
That forest, for the trees.
