Poetry

Countdown, 27 (340.)

I want to be counted among the trees,
you know, to somehow become one
with the woods,
and survive,
none of this “He wandered alone
and died,”
I’d like to know the plants and creatures.
To look at the sky and know
how much time is left in the day,
now that’s a worthy skill.
Like a beaver trims its teeth through carpentry,
I want to need all manner of woodwork,
a desperate drive
to use my mouth like knives
and carve a home for myself.
Not only through speech;
words can be weapons,
and they’re what I prefer,
but my arms feel so weak these days,
I know I need movement.
To take arms, to bare arms, to use arms,
I want to wrestle with an obstacle
and overcome it through exertion.
Here I exhort myself to exorcise my malaise
and execrate idleness,
with the extra stipulation
that rest is also good
once I’ve worked up a sweat.
Expel this ennui from me
and help me seize the day, any day,
someday soon for the love of life –
I need to go outside.

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