Out of the wood
the epiphyte appears to arise.
How it wraps itself around a ready trunk.
How it creeps up toward the light.
Out of the wood
the epiphyte adheres itself,
breathing air, drinking rain,
farming for itself a moist haven.
Out of the wood
the epiphyte appears to branch,
no need for soil,
only rain, a little sun.
Thriving in humidity,
immersive in leaf mould,
collecting dust and debris,
drawing its nutrients
out of the wood,
lengthening and curling,
stretching, the epiphyte dances
afloat.
And out of the wood
we can re-emerge.
The broken shards of ourselves,
living compost.
Out of the wood
we can grow new lives,
like the phoenix shedding ashes
in a sweep of wings.
Out of the wood
we live in symbiosis
with an inner strengthening support,
the eternal push
for resurrected growth,
for continuance.
Life itself the gift that
does not give up,
give out.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
November 2022
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even thus by the great sages ’tis confessed
The phoenix dies, and then is born again,
When it approaches its five-hundredth year;
On herb or grain it feeds not in its life,
But only on tears of incense and amomum,
And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet.
—In English translation
Così per li gran savi si confessa
che la fenice more e poi rinasce,
quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;
erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,
ma sol d’incenso lagrime e d’amomo,
e nardo e mirra son l’ultime fasce.
—In the original Italian
~ the 14th century, Italian poet Dante Alighieri refers to the phoenix in Inferno Canto XXIV
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let my dreams while I’m wide-awake
loose. Let me be drowned, baptized,
in the light given me. Day comes around,
night, fall, winter, spring,
summer. Leaves overhead, underfoot.
Waves arrive, buffets from friends
offended, enemies. Let it all come:
this is my way, this is the canoe I’m in.
~ William Stafford
Living Tree Poetry 