I never climbed trees as a child.
I was too afraid of heights,
and the promise of a bird’s-eye view never weighed
as much as the fear planting my feet in the uneventful concrete.
but I guess that’s how I’ve always been,
driven by fear, not love of something;
running from,
and not towards.
that, I wager, would explain why I have grown
to have roots in the lower mantle of the Earth,
why I have grief on speed dial,
why I outsource my happiness—scarce as it is,
and why I borrow tomorrow’s worries with interest,
like an addict who never intends to make good on their word.
but can you blame the child
taking cover under the shade of trees
for not reaching for the sky or the sunlight,
when there is nothing there to break the imminent fall?
the certainty of the d
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the enticement of a fleeting sense of achievement,
surely you can see that.
you may fault the child for a lack of courage,
but when all they’ve known is shoes that drop,
you become highly aware that humans have two feet,
and so does fate.
one trouble never comes alone, and all that,
and calamity has never been known to limp.
or tiptoe.
ergo, a child can only wait with bated breath
for pairs of shoes,
and hope only not to be too flattened out
in their aftermath.
you, in your Gulliver-adjacent tallness and larger-than-life flamboyance,
only see
the potential not reached,
the chances not seized,
the horizon not expanded,
and leave a stamp of disapproval:
done and dusted,
case dismissed.
lend them your ear, though,
and the ants, the worms, and the ladybugs
will tell you of the molehill they hiked this morning,
of the perils awaiting at the bend of the road,
and of the death plunging from the sky,
sharp talons and beaks, and no remorse.
try that for size, and the trees will turn to esoteric wisdom
whose meaning the critter brain can never endeavor to grasp.
what meaning do trees possess
in the face of giant soles and imprints?
so, no, I have never climbed trees,
and, given the centipedal nature of life
stomping proudly round the Earth,
I can only hold my breath
and wait for the other shoe to drop,
again and again,
in the hope that there will be something left of me
to climb tomorrow’s molehill.
