thinking of the storm that upturned
the shagbarks on the bank
the rain that came like flames
and left their roots reaching for
some truth greater than themselves.
in the ground they were blind
now new leaves spring into green
well I might finally believe
where there is pleasure, there is pain.

Edit: To Begin, Again.

When I was younger and still naive

I would sit beneath

a shagbark tree.

I admired how the bark warped

and curled in smoke gray strips

to protect itself

from fire, insects, and disease,

a trait that became more pronounced with age,

and how easily it could be peeled away.

How, despite its best effort,

it could not protect itself from everything.

The tree fell to a storm

that tore through its rooted soil,

and shook the hickory nuts loose –

its hard-shelled fruits

thumping dully in the mud

like the tears my mother shed

on the topsoil of a grave

for the unruly daughter she could no longer recognize

but from the gnarled root systems

of the shaggy toppled tree

new saplings bloomed,

fed by death –

with no regard for whether a storm would come again –

because it would.

And every time new leaves spring,

from what should have been the end,

I am reminded

that no matter how firm my self-preservation becomes,

someone can always peel it away, a storm will always still come

to fell me. And much like this tree,

I must always choose to begin again,

and again,

and again.