Belongings, belonging

Danielle Walczak  

 

There are two types of weathering in the world.

 

Ice is a rude awakening to the tree

having just shed its fire feathers

frozen in the moment after change

captive, captured in the necessity of

transformation.

 

You must give to the ground to

become part of a cycle

decompose in melting snow

follow rivers to oceans to

raindrops, in reverse.

 

There are two types of weathering

a tree becomes the captivator, a trunk

brass latches, hold together

atoms, organs, bones, belonging, all of the above.

On sidewalks, and dusty bar floors,

in the back of a bus or the grass, a seat

to hold more than belongings

you must give to the ground to

become part of a cycle.

 

Cycles hold us like planks, with rusted bindings

like leaves to branches, roots to

soil improving quality upon itself.

 

We all are repurposed, maybe in useful ways, if we let it,

beautiful ways, if we let others,

sculpt us, if we carry them

in our branches.

Let them sleep in the belly of a trunk

dream in the shade of a tree about to

pass its leaves to the ground.

 

There are two types of weathering.