The air is thick and still, the motion slow
Breaking over me all soft and low and
Dense like a fog to the mind
Each brain and body motionless
Bees’ wings still in the air
Water droplets frozen on their glasses
Mothers’ lips permanently parted in a scold
Skirts caught mid-flutter, thunder’s sound swallowed up
Ah, but my bones
My bones are moving
Aching, creaking, stretching, growing
I am a tree
A weathered old thing, deep as ember, rigid as stone
Though the world has stopped and this moment steals my breath
I live on, my roots in the soil of the Earth
Something’s amiss, yes, something is wrong
I feel no wind in my leaves, no trickle of water through my strong,
Straight trunk
The moss clings to me but does not seem green
There is no heat or chill in the air
Only a great void, once a blossoming world
But still I stand, indifferent to desolation
I am a great tree
My roots go down, down, down into the Earth
I will stay here, through the silent storm
The sky is not so blue, the colors have no life
No warmth of flesh in a babe’s outstretched hand
No sweetness of sunlight, no blessing of rain
No twinkle in the gaze of the white orb moon
Only the chafing wind, the hot, heavy sand
The rough, dry whisper of the angry wind
The messenger dove is late, late, late
The hour is past when life can remain
But my roots go deep
My branches reach high
My limbs stretch and ache and grow
I feel, I see, I am sentinel
I am a great tree
The world’s last lonesome watcher
This fog will not engulf me,
My bark will not be ash
My bones, my bones are moving
Soon the world will wake again.