My heart is a bloodstone, rootwrapped and cold, runecarved with spells. I found it, just sprung from an acorn, and darkly it gave me a purpose to grow to the clouds.
I have strangled my siblings, sensed how their life has been fed into sweetness of sap in my veins. I shadow the meadow with branches of might, not even a flower can bloom without my permission.
Do you still believe in the goodness of timber?
Let me tell you a story.
Once there was a young man in love with a girl at the farm just up there yonders. He came to me telling his woes, while he carved her name into my bark.
I fed him with words from my sap, convinced him to murder the farmer up there yonders. Convinced him the daughter would fall into his arms once her father was dead.
The girl came lamenting her father was dead, and I lowered a nose for maiden to use. I sang her a lullaby and she willingly let herself blossom from one of my branches.
Later they came with the boy to hang him, and as he was dying I swayed them together.
I rejoice from being your gallows, and whenever you feel ready I can help you to die. I will give you a rope and my leaves can pretend to lament.
My sap will be stronger if you feed my your blood.
A little different piece of prose for Magaly at Poet’s United writing from the perspective of trees.
June 2, 2019