The Slow Sauce of Wood

If the tree could only hear itself
The heart racing through the years
Each line as four complete seasons
As snow fell and rain danced
As creatures passed and the wind blew
How water moved through its veins
And the light at morning and
Night fall caused
A squeeze of fibers

Every circle tells a story
Like awkward rock
Erosion and fluctuations in time
Speak of what confrontations it greeted
How the slow sauce of wood grew year after year.

 


11 comments

  1. When I read this poem I can see a parallelism between the life of this tree and a person’s life. Like the tree, each one of us has lines of what we live through the seasons and years, where the weather is both beautiful and harsh, which I think symbolises all the good and difficult moments we experience. This tree has a racing heart as we do and water moves through its veins as our blood does. I think “Every circle tells a story” suggests each experience we have gone through. I like the words “rock”, “erosion” and “fluctuations in time”. To me it is indeed what every human being goes through in life. Aren’t we also like multilayered rocks subject to erosion when facing difficult moments? The sauce of the wood grows throughout the years like any of us experiences personal growth. To sum up: beautiful images and deeply philosophical. Did you get inspired by that video showing what artist Bartholomaus Traubeck can do with a cross-section of a tree trunk? It sounds amazing but I hope not each and every musician wants to do it. Otherwise we would have one more danger of deforestation. Hopefully I don’t think it will come to that and will be what it is now: creative and original.

    • Thank you for saying that. Tree ring dating, where every ring represents a year is different than every emotional event that a human feels, which is apparently how we remember. Or maybe it is a different way. I am awake because of an alarm and then the fear of having missed this day of work last week. It seems we live our lives in terms of fear. And “love,” for me was always infatuation, some lucky draw of paint from the paint gun, like egg on my face, or the constant loneliness of a man or anyone, who thinks that if he waits long enough the love of his life will reappear. (I walk in circles, carrying a story, wondering…, and then I read: “‘Finding A Soulmate Is Not Your Purpose In Life’ published by Shannon Ashley.” There too was a book I read where the protagonist remembers his life in terms of past loves, which is different than past lovers.


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