You always tell me that I am too old to be climbing trees. And above all I aim to please. Or at least I've always aimed to please you. So normally I ignore the whispers. Stuff cotton wool in my ears and try not to hear the sound of the trees singing. But today I am tired of pretending: today I am going to climb a tree. The tree by the river: Tall and old she is. Old, so old. As old as time she seems. How long do trees live? I wonder this as I scale the tree— inch by inch; branch by branch. Rough bark grazes fingertips— ancient runic braille. I think that the whorls and swirls that dot the trunk have a message for me if I could only read the age old orthography of trees. Leaves lightly brush my face and a bird starts and flies away. I am sorry to disturb him. This is his home I know. But I must borrow it for a while. I hope he does not mind too much. I pull myself up to the highest climbable branch and sit down, feet dangling over the edge. I lean my cheek against the trunk of the tree and feel her pulse. It feels like something right. Something necessary. They say that our prehistoric ancestors lived in trees six million years ago: orrorin tugenensis. Perhaps something in my genetic memory still remembers. I'm so much more alive up here. Wide awake but filled with peace. Filled with wonder.

Perhaps one day you might join me up here. Perhaps then you too will remember. Perhaps then you too will understand.

©Anneshiningstar2019

29/12/19

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This is my second attempt at writing a prose poem after reading up on them. I know that usually they're just a single block of text with no line breaks, but I'm cheating a bit at the end. I hope this attempt at a poem does not sound too silly. Also I feel like I might be using the word "orthography" wrong, but I couldn't find the word I was looking for. :)
I have always loved trees. I've loved sitting under them and also sitting in them. It feels like I'm safe from the world when I'm up there. Happy new year!
🎉🎉🎉🎊