Untitled

Untitled

In the cocoon of my car, one night,

I sat under a tree

and told it how anxiety is a creature 

that crawls

in the stomach. Or radiation,

itching on the flesh;                

or a sand storm, a dust cloud,

bewildering. It's fear.           

It makes one last demand, then another, and another,

forever. It's the inflammation 

in response to a spec,            

or is it a spec? 

I don’t know.                      

I don't know what's real.

Except that tree.               

And though it did not care,

through the sunroof,

I needed its embrace,

and noted how its leaves

were made yellow by Autumn and sodium

from the street lamp,

and looked like petals.

And the next night, I talked to a friend, which was even better.

Reviews

[Claire in VA]

I like your style here.
I feel as if Ive had this conversation
with a different tree, but maybe I didnt.
Cant wait for more.
Fan across the large pond,
Claire

[m.s.early]

A representation of our inner thoughts and the relativeness of conveying ourselves in fellowship with human spirits.