in the trunk of a hollowed-out tree
is very much like you'd expect it to be:
It's standing and sleeping, it's bending, it's creaking.
It's tirelessly weathering nature's unfettering barriage of sweltering fury
It's hiding and waiting in a wooden encasing like soldiers of mythical Troy.
Faint stirrings are heard: the chirping of birds, the tree-frogs, the owls, the distant wolf howls
In sleep come the dreams of the Great Northern Giants,
Towering over their forested planet,
then waking up to a millipede in the shoe..
One future day I'll climb out of this shell,
This place of absurdity I'll bid fond farewell.
Maybe by then I'll be finally free,
Unless, quite naturally,
It turns out to be
really .. really
the . .... . the
only . .... . only
life .. .. life
for . . for
me . . me
© 2009 Jubal Faircloth