I dreamt I built a tree last night, and it turned out it was wintertime. And if I really built it, why, there's a miracle right there. Maybe I just drew it. Looking up from underneath, as if on my back. I must have sketched on the sky across the trunk, first one way then the other. Then the sky become the branches, one after another, then another, again. Looking from afar I marveled.
But what of this constructive dream of mine? Why, maybe it's simple: I want to set down roots and feel the ground of being. Nah, that can't be it. For real I'm still climbing to the top of the tree of life to catch a view. Every year is closer to the top, a pinnacle of flame. But, whoa, when you get there it's the inevitable drop to the earth (then six feet down). Yes, I'm talking death, the clubhouse after the back nine. Reminds me of, reminds me of reminds me of--you connect the dots.
Have you ever climbed a tree and gone higher than where you wished you stopped, upon reflection? A gulp in the stomach, a quick gasp of breath. There is a safe way down, right? I mean you got up here didn't you? There is the motion of the wand and the invisibility of the wind. Capture the leaves, but bare trees allow for no such luck. We're stuck.
Even if I was to carve a corny heart into the trunk, forever don't care for that junk. A blink of the eye and that tree is dust. What a waste of a dream.
Tonight I'm bringing an axe to bed, or at least my rusty ol' hatchet.
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