Tree Story #31: Honduran Mist
You told me of the place
In the dark.
We were in the night.
And you told me of the place in the dark that wasn’t night
where our dreams met.
Did our dreams drift apart?
It was a question.
I didn’t realize that
it was a question
of you and I,
between you and I.
It was one more thing that I didn’t see.
You told me of when you were in the jungle.
You would have dreams of being in the jungle.
It was difficult for you to see the difference of being and dreaming.
Then there was the story.
How to explain the stars that stain our skies?
Oriental carpets flying above in the dark underneath of wonder.
Stars are the souls of trees.
When a tree is killed its soul appears in the sky.
And I looked at you,
I couldn’t hide my confusion
and my shameful disbelief.
By the hand, you took me
into the darkness of your jungle.
In the night the darkness,
I could taste it,
feel it on my face,
weighing my feet with dark.
Turning my face to look up at the underneath
of trees,
not enough air to breathe,
the sky can be cruel, I thought.
And you said “When a tree dies its soul is now alone, naked . That’s why when we stand here and look we cannot see the sky but if this tree were gone in it’s place a star appears.”
There are places more quiet than the night.
There are places
inside me that look like that night.
JF
