Sunday, April 26, 2009

Wine Harold bin 00001

Once upon a time there was a tree who dreamed of growing into an orchard. And eventually, he did.

Once upon a time there was a bear who ate all the honey. And one day, there was no more honey.

Once upon a time I dreamed about a lot of weird stuff and wrote it all down. And then I sent it to you.

You can still find the old tree amid the rows and columns of cherries. They only give fruit in the seventh year, but they blossom every spring.

You brought that poor bear more. I saw you go out into the woods at night. I was watching from the upstairs window. You carried that wide sticky bowl in front of you like a beacon or oblation.

You caught it and kept it safe and taught me about trust and about mail.

I like to watch the cherry trees grow, even though they never seem to move. Our trees are never growing. They only grew in the past and will grow in the future. Yesterday and tomorrow.

I was worried about you, but not because you were a girl. I was worried because you were going into the forest, and because you were doing it at night, and because you were going to look for a hungry bear. I was worried about the flimsiness of your nightgown and because you were by yourself. I was still scared of the dark. I am still scared of being by myself.

I might need to look back over my journal and find out what I'm thinking about these days. My roots are as big as my branches but they have their own invisible shape. I grow in dusty purple clusters of unconsciousness. You are agriculture to my wilderness.

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