Weather Vanes, a Shanty
One of my neighbors has a weather vane on top of the house
in the shape of a pirate ship.
The leaves on the tree in front
have spindly veins, bright green,
like a tree frog or a strange crayon,
except for the leaves that are dead, still hanging,
brown and breaking off.
If you get close and touch the leaves,
one side is smooth,
and the other side is soft, with little hairs,
and the bark of the tree is rough but
not too rough
and then you look and you notice
a bee buzzing over a small flowering shrub
and the weather vane shifts just slightly
and the house is made of stucco
and through the window
you can't quite make out
but someone has just passed through a room
and a shadow lingers where a human once tread.
Are there veins between us,
we humans, veins we simply do not see,
but feel, and react to in anger, or hurt,
or love?
As if we were a group of Aspens,
you know,
how forests of Aspens are one large organism
altogether?
A little girl told me that
and I believed her
because children in school learn amazing things.
Maybe we don't see where our roots connect us.
People, that is.
But that doesn't mean they aren't there,
just below the surface,
pulsating with information
not of the school children variety
but something deep and primordial,
something beyond the facts and figures of tests and essays,
something intangible
but wholly real.
Then the weather vane shifts again,
or was it my imagination?
And the slow voice that let me walk
unperturbed by the worries of the world of the grown up?
It speeds up, getting louder now,
reminding me, oh, look at the time,
but you can't because you don't own a watch,
but you can feel it, yes, can't you, more energy on the streets,
traffic a block over?
and there are important people to invoice
and coffee to make
and
and
home now,
no coffee,
ignoring still this maddening humanity
cutting off its own connection
as if an Aspen could take an axe to his roots
we are the crumbling leaves
we are the shadows dying in the dust
but I am a pirate
my treasure, my soul
my heart is my gold
and my dreams are my sails
and the high seas where I bravely sally forth?
well, they are made of secrets,
of the songs you forgot
and the things you learned in school
all those facts and questions that never did make it on to any test.
Now they are all tangled below with the seaweed.
in the shape of a pirate ship.
The leaves on the tree in front
have spindly veins, bright green,
like a tree frog or a strange crayon,
except for the leaves that are dead, still hanging,
brown and breaking off.
If you get close and touch the leaves,
one side is smooth,
and the other side is soft, with little hairs,
and the bark of the tree is rough but
not too rough
and then you look and you notice
a bee buzzing over a small flowering shrub
and the weather vane shifts just slightly
and the house is made of stucco
and through the window
you can't quite make out
but someone has just passed through a room
and a shadow lingers where a human once tread.
Are there veins between us,
we humans, veins we simply do not see,
but feel, and react to in anger, or hurt,
or love?
As if we were a group of Aspens,
you know,
how forests of Aspens are one large organism
altogether?
A little girl told me that
and I believed her
because children in school learn amazing things.
Maybe we don't see where our roots connect us.
People, that is.
But that doesn't mean they aren't there,
just below the surface,
pulsating with information
not of the school children variety
but something deep and primordial,
something beyond the facts and figures of tests and essays,
something intangible
but wholly real.
Then the weather vane shifts again,
or was it my imagination?
And the slow voice that let me walk
unperturbed by the worries of the world of the grown up?
It speeds up, getting louder now,
reminding me, oh, look at the time,
but you can't because you don't own a watch,
but you can feel it, yes, can't you, more energy on the streets,
traffic a block over?
and there are important people to invoice
and coffee to make
and
and
home now,
no coffee,
ignoring still this maddening humanity
cutting off its own connection
as if an Aspen could take an axe to his roots
we are the crumbling leaves
we are the shadows dying in the dust
but I am a pirate
my treasure, my soul
my heart is my gold
and my dreams are my sails
and the high seas where I bravely sally forth?
well, they are made of secrets,
of the songs you forgot
and the things you learned in school
all those facts and questions that never did make it on to any test.
Now they are all tangled below with the seaweed.
