The Tree

I dangle my legs from the dark olive boughs of the Holm oak. Below the grass is still, but for an occasional flicker. Strange, I consider, that the magic of the stillness is embellished by that flicker, and that flicker seems a call to something so pure and right and homely, just a flicker, a springy judder, for a fleeting moment but a thrill and one I know well, of running away, escaping onto the moonlit plains, galloping bareback on a stolen horse. Let them try to catch me- Yes I´ll steal away in the cold dead of the night. I´ll tip-toe along a creaky corridor with my heart pumping out-of-rhythm and just a flash of starlight through the pane, and the glimpse of the big out there will tip me from death fear to death desire.

And when the flicker is absent I am calm, silent, mindless, soft and open, deep and far-perceiving . I feel the rhythm of all things, the vibrations deep down below, far, so far. I am the glimmer of these sparkling summer leaves. I would wrap those leaves around my eye balls and wedge them along my gums to be closer to them. The wind could roar in my ears, the cold could snap my fingers and I would stay in this tree, in this moment.

I´ll wait here in this tree: the night can claim me, the stars can diminish me into fragmented specks but I would still be in the universe, vibing out my existence.