scarlet dagger
A bird and its babies sit atop a sequoia.
The tree sits motionless and inviolable,
it sees all from beyond and each from within.
One and all of the chicks are unique,
some fat, some skinny,
others vibrant of color or pale.
There are chicks that cry, howling through the branches,
and others lying in tranquility
In succession,
they open their eyes for the first time.
A prismatic array of colors are garnished in the air,
like a beam of aurora dancing through the curves of a winter night's sky.
The chicks all gather by their mother,
and in haste ambition began to solicit their demands.
When will I grow?
When will I fly,
like a free bird in the sky?
The cacophonous sound played to the tree,
and he began to speak with a heavy voice.
It was rich in sound but somber in tone.
I hold your desires in my hand,
If you wish to grow then listen in full.
These roots cause droughts and just consume,
my trunk is immense,
heavier than the feelings of those who preside within.
My bark as hard as tusks,
yet they are pierced with pain throughout.
My branches are homes and the responsibility of my own.
The chicks sat in silence,
then cried some more.