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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas #851264 added June 8, 2015 at 11:05pm
Restrictions: None
Trees
Prompt: From a book description: “In the belief of the Gond tribe [in India], the lives of humans and trees are closely entwined. Trees contain the cosmos; when night falls, the spirits they nurture glimmer into life. Have you ever watched the trees at night, and can you imagine if they have a night life and which secrets they are hiding?
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Once upon a time, which was about until twenty-five years ago, we lived in a house with a two-acre backyard and a half acre front yard. It was covered with trees, mostly oaks but other trees, too. We had, by a very rough estimation, more than 200 tall trees. I know this because the tree-man said so, while he was charging us an arm and a leg.
While we lived there, for more than twenty-two years, we had wind storms, ice storms, and three category one hurricanes. Not one branch fell on the house. Yes, we lost some trees to the storms, but the trees seemed to take care of us like kin.
They held back the bodies of the winds like ninja warriors. They held back the onslaught of the heat. They were like soldiers guarding us, huddling over our ranch-style house. Even if they became rotten inside and were broken, they never even gave us a scratch.
At nights they swayed to the wind, their branches touching each other as if dancing, while the strobe lights of the moon and the stars squeezed through them. In the winter, their dark forms created wonderful silhouettes against the bright snow. And they never blotted out the sky totally.
I am sure they had secrets, but they only whispered them, and their whispers were hard to hear. I can only guess they were communing with the cosmos in our behalf.
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