A tree of poets,
it is just as you imagine.
Murmurs spiral from the leaves made of glass spun from words and silence
and land deftly onto the pages below.
This is the tree under which poets sit and pull words from their veins.
It is where we come to find the fissure in our mind’s skin to thread out phrases loud enough to make us still as we watch our fingers warm hour after hour.
This is where we come to place our pens in the palms of others and trust them to protect our words as they are the only defense we have.
Each of us has a soul of mirrors and glass that reflect ideas and pull others through.
The Poet Tree is silent until we find our glass is cracked,
and our mirrors are shattered
and nothing poetic can come from
At nightfall we are trembling
But by daybreak, we compose a piece that stills our hands
and mutes the cacophony in our hearts.
Let us be translucent again.
Those by the Poet Tree are scattered.
Some are nestled up between the silent cold branches where words dart overhead,
chiming the glass leaves as they swoop past.
Up there, words are at their fingertips but only if they stretch far enough.
Some lay sprawled out
on the paper leaf pages where
The tails of sentences
Rustle the ground and
Poke at their ears.
The swish of their shoes create a melody of silence dense enough to create something new.
At the Poet Tree, our wrists, now flushed and empty have been painted with smears of Times New Roman and ballpoint ink.
And at last, we have found home.
-Nine to Eleven