There’s something to be said of touching a tree in winter.
Gone are the leaves of a more joyous day, swallowed up by the sleeping hands of Winter.
Life seems to ebb from an empty shell as naked branches reach toward the sky.
Yet, as I place a palm upon their rough skin I feel a sense of agelessness.
The essence of an organism unafraid of death or its sting.
I am a child, playing at the feet of one older than my un-lived existence.
The poems this month have a very personal touch as each one was crafted silently by the bedside of a dying patient. This poem is part of a larger collection highlighting my personal experience working in the healthcare field. If you’d like to read more follow the link here.
Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.