let's say a tree on paper is equal to or greater than
the water that it takes to feed the tree. let's say
you live beside this park, that people are attracted to
the park, and you, you levitate
by reaching into centermost epitome
to meet the call for what a tree is to become
when finally in place. let's say that you are placed
"where you are planted," as your relatives once
said. and that charisma feeds the plants
that round the tree, that surfaces are only
evidence of what lies deep beneath
this planted obvious. this object.
let's say awareness is an artifact,
regardless of the rumor mill. let's follow up
with what this might mean to the minced thinking
that often wanders off into unfinished things.
let's say you have everything right now to do.
let's say you do it. let's say you do not sleep
except to warm your partner back to sleep,
so back to back you go, to soothe the worry
that occurs quite naturally, the rumor is.
let's say there is a festival, and you can look
at trees, and you can render unto the authorities
what they have authored on your behalf.
let's say you're tired of being thought about
like silk. that you would rather live.
that you would far prefer to be the water
or the tree and looked at in the light of function,
not taken for granted as if you were
mere decoration. is the aging process
holy as it was when you were young
and looked ahead? what age is perfection?
if you hear the answer on some random walk,
then tell someone, maybe the authorities.
perhaps explain with gusto. I don't know
what it is makes me look forward to
the next installment of a different hue of daylight.
something of routine. something habitual.