If an experience is like a tree – any tree, really-
with its woody floralness, pushing open compact buds,
a thick and rough furrowed trunk. The trunk that divides
and re-divides into incredible fractals.
A bird calls out to her mate from a branch
as the breeze rustles the tender new leaves.
If an experience is like a tree,
then memory is like
the shadow of a tree on the sidewalk
on a partly cloudy spring day.
Is that a tree? I ask.
The dark lines with indefinite edges
crisscross and merge together on the concrete
with no rich tone or texture
no papery peeling bark
no leaves with delicately serrated margins
no symmetrical green veins
The bird calls out to her mate: my experience.