The timeless wisdom of the leaves. |
I never thought that I would be in privileged proximity of White Talking Leaves… a secret held for generations o’er time of war and drought and brash development, wherein ax and saw and bulldozer pushed the bosom of the Earth apart to make for condo, plaza, parking lot… and yet enough remained of White Leaves to whisper their secret on the wind, to add their voice among the chattering of chipmunk, groundhog, restless wren… a grove, an escarpment, a line albeit thin to say to human progress, “We are here,” and, “We are treasures of this Earth,” despite the pour of Portland cement, despite the auger’s audacious twist through clay and silt for piles deep, despite the need for the dollar sign. I lend my ear to hear their voice and as I do, I detect a hint of sadness among the leafy oration—a budding of dichotomy resonating ‘round about with sturdy trunk as bass boom drum and leafy limbs the sticks to snare attention. Those White Leaves talk beyond the scope of nature’s mien, of sunlight gained and chemical reaction. They’re proud of many things, all right, yet none so strong as time itself and how they thrive amid man’s push— the rape of life, for they are also life. So fortunate I, to hear them speak, and in my spine a tingling great as the secret spills with eloquence that steals the very air I breathe: “We are the journey work of time; the cosmos lies within us all.” 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp 8-12-16 |