I hugged each tree trunk one by one, caressed each stalk, each stem, each textured leaf, each evanescent petal that now is a fresh-scented pink and by dawn, sallow, already reeks of wilted tissue and, with eyes closed, I breathed. I breathed and I touched. I mapped bark creases and crevasses, patterns of smoothness and ridges, trajectories, channels of tree sap and life and I breathed. Or tried to. I ran my fingers through the thorns and the bushes – blackberries, roses, raspberries, lilac – some overblown, some blooming, all still sharp, until my hands were raw and excoriated and I could leave something of mine behind: a few skin cells, a drop of lymph or blood that bleeds into the sunset and, all out of breath by now, walked in, rushed up the staircase, holding on to dead wood and iron, sat down at my old desk, looked out, outside my window, typed one last poem to say goodbye and wept. My clickety-clack and the ocean of green in the garden so quiet – quietly conjuring up a tsunami.
Writer Between Worlds 