My Truth at Play
Reality is the independent existence
of something apart from another thing
that derives from ideas concerning it.
The truth of something stands alone
and needs nothing more to define it.
My truth is my tree
outside my window;
my creation, my claim, my child
whose long legs penetrate
the ground beneath it
and sink a million miles below
to the end of the Universe,
that depends on me
for the nurturing.
He looks at me when I sleep
and calls for me in the early morn.
In early May his arms get covered
with bustling emeralds of soft velvet.
He cries as the dew forms upon them
and when the wind shakes him too hard.
Then at night he summons me to read
him a bedtime story so he can go to sleep.
In December he starts to shiver
and looks for me to cover him up.
I tell him to wait until the white flakes
from the mouth of the sky beast
start to dance to the music of the wind
and float down to cover him up.
Then he will be comfortable until
the emissaries of the Vernal Order
knock on the door of his home
and tell him it’s time to
go out and play again.
He is my child,
my reality distorted,
my dreams, my creation,
my responsibility,
my truth embellished,
and my truth at play.
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