We tend to things apparent to us. Sit and look or stand and look and shape a rabbit out of cloud, a wolf out of lurking shadow, whispers in the leaves. Bring me a cup of water and a cup of wine and I shall drink both, mixing chaos out of order in my brown belly. Fling the door wide and I shall stagger down the street shouting in the language all drunks know. Raise your arms to the stars when the wine runs out throw off your clothes and cry out for the one you desire. When you awaken, naked in some forest, and have shivered yourself sober, you will always find another face in a tree.
My friend who challenged me to write a poem per day in December posted a photo on her Facebook wall of a tree that had a face on it. That got me thinking about how we tend to anthropomorphize, or even more generally, create order out of chaos. It’s kind of a defense mechanism. I wanted to write about that tension, and using a voice similar to Rumi’s seemed like a good idea for the content.
RT @AdamInCLE: Wrote this: The Face In The Tree — http://t.co/a7ecW9sG #poetry
Mystichipster.
I’m more of a chocolatechipster.