Bark, tough and earthy under my palm
thick skin – you’ve got a decade on me
and scars, visible in each bump and crag.
Eye and heart, drawn to a wound
hidden gracefully in green boughs,
wide enough for my finger
and I cannot feel the bottom.
Cracks radiate pain and consequence
outward. Brown-dead lines
the only sign of movement.
I trace jagged edges – something was
forced and you bear the (w)hole.
To touch these grooves of suffering
is a holy grace.
Holding on a moment – a blink – forever?
and I notice something else
within sight of the damage.
White, another’s discard perhaps,
yet it is new:
an image – a bird – a crane.
Tiny laughter bubbles. How absurd!
beauty, unexpected and small here.
Another grace and I cannot see the bottom.