The Wounded

While walking alone
Amongst the bare trees
With dried tears
Upon my cheeks,
The frigid air burning my
Throat and lungs,
I meandered through
The quiet community.

I looked for nothing
Yet found so much
In the vulnerable forest.

Near a stream stood
The tallest, most Awe-inspiring
Sycamore
I had ever seen.

I peered up to the top
Of the Grand Old Tree,
Standing strong against the
Bitter winds
And the gray winter sky.

My eyes scanned the height of the tree
From top to bottom.

When I stared
Straight ahead I saw
The markings
Of thoughtless
Humans…

Hearts and Declarations
Of Love
Littered the trunk
Of the Majestic Being.

I placed my hands
Upon the deep wounds
And transferred
All the healing thoughts
I could muster
Through my cold fingertips.

“I feel your pain as if
It were my own…”

How could such a
Beautiful Creature
Be harmed in such a way?

I laid my my cheek upon
The source of the tree’s
Strength
And tried to absorb its
Resiliency.

I admired how it wore
Its wounds, its pain, its vulnerability
And yet did not seem
At all phased by them.

I detested the lack
Of benevolence and respect
In this World.

I stood with the tree
Until the stars came out
And my body was numb
With the cold.

I could feel nothing
Of my physical self
Except my Aching Heart.

Tenderly, I wrapped and bandaged
Its wounds with
The gray woolen scarf
From around my neck.

I bid my companion a sorrowful farewell
And I promised to return
To the place that felt
Like Home.

Stepping away,
I looked back
For one last look at
The Being I had felt closer to
Than any other.

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