A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
Against the breath of God
Strong limbs are blown and broken,
Wooden bodies bow.
Tree tops sway
Precariously high above and frightfully close,
Branches and twigs twining and grappling in a dance,
Rustling their leaves in a language I couldn’t understand.
There are two ways I perceive such an occurance.
I attempt at reassuring myself that I and they will be fine
Against the onslaught of air that moves them so.
But I can’t suppress the thought
That the sway of treetops
Are the strained cries for help
Or violent shouts for retribution
As it struggles not to
Or fights in order to
But as I stare up at the limbs,
Sturdy in their dance with the wind,
And listen to them whisper and shout,
I can imagine the trees speaking to one another
Allowing me to listen and filling me all with fear, exhilaration, and peace
For the adventure now and yet to come.