Blood and Trees
I remember being told:
ink was once made with blood.
Turns out it was actually ashes,
but who is to decide where skin
ends and blood begins?
I can see blood oozing over bark
– human or tree?
Isn't it ironic that we preserve
our words in blood on the trees,
our trees in blood for our words.
What wound do words open,
gushing onto the page?
Language that both gives breath and brings death,
Is it the tree or the blood that survives?
Or do they carry each other,
piggy-backing across fire, floods, and time.
Can I put my hands on this tree,
and divine meaning
from Brailled bark,
fingertips catching on rough slivers,
leaving their blood mark.
Eventually, we all wish to end as trees.
Baucis and Philemon, dead at the same moment,
but living intertwined.