Lament

I can hear the trees outside, and they sound like whispers.

Whispers of another time, another place, another voice.

The breaths of another.

The hopes of another.

The beating of another's heart beside me, against my back.

I can hear the trees outside, the soft lull of their cries.

The sway and hum of their leaves.

The crackle and snap of their roots in the earth.

Growing.

Spreading.

They are alive.

They are free.

They are trapped.

I can hear the trees outside, the hush of them outside my window, the patter of their slender branches against the glass.

They are tapping to be let in.

They are brushing, stroking, whispering, screaming.

They are fearful.

They want to be let in, to escape from what is outside.

But what they don't know is that inside is just as treacherous.

I can hear the trees outside, the scraping of their branches against each other.

The scratch and tear of their bark.

The slow, ponderous drip of their sap as they bleed onto the ground, their life soaking the earth.

They are living.

They are dying.

So am I.

I can hear the trees outside, but they do not beg to be let in.

They cry out in joy, for as they live, they die, but they know something that we do not.

They know that outside is just as dangerous as inside.

They know that living is dangerous.

They know that life is worth it.

They know that they scream and they cry and they bleed.

They know how to heal.

I can hear the trees outside, the hush of them outside my window.

But they are alive.

And I am not.