Being a God
We go to the Sequoias to be one of them.
Two thousand years old, three hundred feet long.
We find our places and straighten.
We spread our arms. The wind greets us,
testing our roots.
We close our eyes and our smooth skin becomes choppy,
moss creeps along our sides. Our fingers wooden.
Not moving as the sun paints us.
Not speaking while the birds nest.
Not flinching as the squirrels and chipmunks open
our mouths with their needle sharp claws,
pushing their food in, trusting us with their lives.
When my oldest moans, “Why are we
going to the trees again?” my youngest
answers, “To pretend to be one of them.”
I watch the scene behind me in the mirror.
The teenager sighs.
We ride on in the silence of the trees.
Michael Mark is a hospice volunteer and long distance walker. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Gargoyle Magazine, Gravel Literary Journal, Lost Coast Review, Rattle, Ray’s Road Review, San Pedro Review, Scapegoat Journal, Spillway, Tar River Poetry, Toe Good and other nice places. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. @michaelgrow