And no, they did not die from solitude;
nor did their branches bear a sterile fruit;
nor did their unhealed flanks weep every spring
for those four yards that lost them everything,
as each strained on its shackled root to face
the other’s empty, intricate embrace.
They were trees, and trees don’t weep or ache or shout.
And trees are all this poem is about.
-Don Paterson
All pain is a warning
The hardness of stone
Slumped shoulders rising only to shrug
A finger pressed between a car door--
Clicking closed
Compacting skin and blood
Swelling.
An ache--
The only thing felt
Through the numbness
Hurt murmurs
The lights shutting off
In violent echoes
The hardness of stone
Teeth connecting with flesh
Wide-eyed revolt
Probing grimace
Steel splinters
The hardness of stone
Waking in the night
Gingerly rolling over
Turning into impact
Momentum acting as fate
The hardness of stone
Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius -- and a lot of courage -- to move in the opposite direction.
-Albert Einstein
