Poetry

The Arborist

Trees-Green-High-Forest

He stomps into the warmth of the room surprisingly quiet considering how big he is. I could smell him before I saw him. The smell of tree debris coats him like snow. Only saw dust doesn’t melt. I know what he’s returned from creating because his earth roots into my lungs and landscapes my breath.

I inhale the scent of a toppled forest. Cold breeze clacks skeleton trees swirling the last crunching leaves to pillow his steel booted feet.
Slowly he starts his saw singing them to silent peace.

Gently he inspects their tired limbs. Absorbing gnarled pain in his
calloused hands unchaining withered lives fully live. Listening to their history rippling from rooted lips.

Thankful dust whispers finally reaching the sky. No longer forced to strive for righteous height. He carved their wooded cries into relieved sighs. Sprouting scents watering my eyes.

He’s returned home from etching his name in stumps splintered with pain; his engraved body aching with the weight of grinding chains. Believing he’s failed in playing the standard tune of former strains. Forgetting the height he climbed was only attained through the harness of grace. Not accepting The room already feels warmer just from the breath he gave.

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