Will you tend to her with me?
Will you watch the new growths bud, asking the sky to be carried up, spun about?
Will you climb her, sole to bark, receiving her ripe treasure?
Will you, like that old story, assist gravity in delivering to the crown of my head, the most unripe persimmon?
Will you gaze upon that grey mater, viscous, the pulp, my pulp pooling at her feet?
Will you notice as my beloved, my children, pour out of me in the thousands, scuttling amongst my limbs, entwined with hers?
Can you hear them coming for you, monkey?
My children and their friends on e-bikes,
My children and their lovers weary on the last train on the Red line,
My children and their elders, feet pounding the ground, her foliage shivering,
Announcing their descent down to your door.
what what
what what is a prompt for you, dear reader, that I ask you to indulge me in. let me waste a little of your time.
what do you sow?
what was the last project have you seen from inception to fruition? what work have you done that you are still waiting for a return on? what do you imagine the story of your work would sound like, as told by others, your peers, your family?