Nicole Page-Smith
Feathers
We are men and the man we are is the tree of man. Man, sprouts, leaves as to grow but does grow. Growing man is of man for god but tree. Trees are. Trees are fully grown. Trees. Now green and there is another idea have deciduous in mind but are tree in winter. Trees are green but when they fall, the leaves have fallen. Dead trees are dead wood. Fallen leaves.
Leaves fall and when they fall it is Autumn. Autumn leaves fall.
Falling leaves are in Autumn and fall. But come Spring leaves and buds grow again. Flowers bud all winter. When Spring comes, we grow and we grow like trees, growing. Growing with stems and shoots and leaves, we suck up the ground's reservoir of water through our body like the blood. Blood is the sap.
Blood has leaves. Leaves are like humans, they crumble, they fall and grow, again. Growing. They grow again. Leaves, leaves are on trees. Autumn leaves.
Winter trees and god. The barren limbs and odd bird's nest from last spring reflect the sky of dull, grey days and rain. Cold, solitary and alone, the trees seem to ache in anticipation of spring, creaking and groaning in the wind. On sunny days you are taken to the heavens and think of the stars or night. Is the moon really the Sun or in reflection of Earth? You wonder in our gaseous state of star like the biggest star, the sun, how stars could be living up there, in the starry heavens, they live their own life for god. We breed life. We fell from the heavens like meteorites. We fell. Falling. Falling from the heavens was god's idea. Plants become us. Trees.
We have leaves. Birds fly. Feathers.
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