It sits off center.

Sits in the black.

Sits alone.

It leans to the left.

It occupies the end.

It occupies the beginning.

Its roots spin in indecision.

Rain pitter pats.

Soaks its burlap wrap.

Roots race to drink.

Rainwater passes through too fast.

Its thirst persists.

No rainy season can quench.



Roots cease to spin.

The black smells the end.

It scurries to the edge.

Spills over the ledge.

Slithers out of every crack and crevice.

Black Ledge

It has the spark

It seeks the tree.

Not to plant it; but, to tame it.

Control it.

Condition it.

Prune it.

Clip it.

Bend it.

Twist it into an ornament.

Pot it in a poorly lit corner.

Piss on it for water.

Feed it malice and envy.

Turn its translucent leaves cloudy.

Sacrifice something vulnerable.

Then wrap its maggot-ridden remains in a cloudy leaf.

Transmit death and decay to the common consciousness.

This is what the sky so feared.

She appears.

Touches the tip of a leaf.

“Hey there” she says.

“It’s you” the tree says.

“Have you anchored yet?” she asks.

“No. Not yet. I am still wrapped in burlap.”

She rubs a piece between her fingertips.

“It does not matter anyways” the tree says.

“Why?” she asks.

“I arrived at the ending.”

“You know” she says “the beginning does not always begin at the beginning.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Some beginnings take longer. Some are more difficult than others. But, every beginning can begin again.”

“Why begin again? I have seen the forthcoming. It is full of despair and diminishment. I think it is best just to end this.”

“And, avoid all of the suffering?”


“Yes. No one should have to go through that. But, this being, he has already begun his quest. With every breath his tiny frame struggles to take, it is you that he seeks. And, to him, it is worth enduring all the despair and diminishment.”


“Because, he knows that it is only through wounding that wonder exists.”

“But, I cannot anchor this being.”

“Yes you can. You are no longer a sapling.”

“I know. But, I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I do not have the roots.”


“My rootstock is not redwood, oak or buckeye. I will not grow to towering heights. I will not strike awe in others upon first sight.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“My rootstock is silver maple. They say it is weak wooded and messy. They call it a weed tree. They tell others not to plant it.”

“They do. But, do you know what else they say?”


“They say it shows up where others do not want it. They say it takes root in the tiniest crack. They say to cut it down. But, it grows back. It is a frustrating tree. You have no idea. And, do not even get me started about its helicopter seeds.”

She sets her gaze on the tree.

It is unwavering.

“Listen to me. You are a weed tree. And, you are exactly what this being needs.”

The tree loses its lean.

“You have a task to complete.”

The tree agrees.

She leaves.

Roots break through the burlap.


Burrow deep.

Anchor the being to the common consciousness.

Leaves transmit.

The dark closes the distance.

The universe commits.

Pushes the black back.

Just enough.

A monitor beeps.

Eyelids slowly open.

Show off their blue to a gathering of all kinds of watery hues.

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