Roots old and new.
Knotted, stubborn and deep like veins on an old farmer’s hand.
Memory’s waterway of emotions waxed and waned.
Life’s tide lies therein.
Which nourish me more? My roots old or new?
The old have nourished me but rendered me static.
That inmost longing to move remains.
To where though? How?
This inner mourning remains obscure, the pine tree stands resolute among his brethren.
Solemn monastic brothers reflecting while passersby hurry and chatter.
Periodically new roots sprout.
Were they there yesterday? Or last month? Am I still who I was?
A breathless moment, winded by the rush of novel uncertainty.
Recompose and reflect.
New roots spring verdant hope. The forest chatter becomes at once tolerable even jolly.
It is cruelly imperceptible.
Like the vampirish cloak of dusk sweeping the forest new roots become old roots.
Bedded in for the long night.
Will the verdant hope return? Does it nourish me still? Can I still change?
The pine holds firm in the dark, an arboreal insomniac awaiting dawn’s hubub.
Standing in the impervious forest on roots old and new.