Between trees, the flexibility from flip to sleep
through the afternoon, yes, between trees, sparkle
disturbs little. Deep trust. Air is the wind of breath
of air of wind, between trees. Trees
shed no bones or skins, there is no reluctant grip. Flip
free, a butterfly urges a hold, a little delinquent. Feel
with the embarrassed in a rejected confession, still
mixed with a sting of salt (believe me, just a little)—to
me I know. Between trees, the clearly-proportioned
oils and flesh in fresh-cut sausages made
in grandma’s hands are always—the just in-places—juices
of longevity, recipe as offspring’s keepsake, not shared.
Grandma also breathes, like us, but more like trees.
She says little, as her body. She used to dance
salsa in sexy shreds. Led, learning to be, through
a mix of hot beats and boys’ caress, blush wasn’t
counted on. Care, she says, is like beef cubes
in broth, stuggy no matter how you stir, not like powder--
(she likes using “not like” more than “unlike”). What she
cares after years and years? Between trees, she says,
there is a myth. Once you stare into the gap
between trees that hits the one-hundredth time
of the swing, you can hear the trees sing. “I like your
singing more than the trees’,” I tell her. “I just sing
like the trees, my dear,” she giggles. My father
told me that he really heard the trees sing
like an angel when he was four. I wondered if
it was just my grandma singing between trees when
hanging up the wash of a family of ten kids, three aunts,
and two brothers in the backyard for half a day.
But my father said that she never whistled, not
even singing. Does singing like the trees
mean singing badly or singing like an angel, who
can only sing like an untouchable nymph
luring people to seek no matter how many
years have passed, so as to make it into one
of the carelists when dozing off between trees?
Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing in the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favourite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.
through the afternoon, yes, between trees, sparkle
disturbs little. Deep trust. Air is the wind of breath
of air of wind, between trees. Trees
shed no bones or skins, there is no reluctant grip. Flip
free, a butterfly urges a hold, a little delinquent. Feel
with the embarrassed in a rejected confession, still
mixed with a sting of salt (believe me, just a little)—to
me I know. Between trees, the clearly-proportioned
oils and flesh in fresh-cut sausages made
in grandma’s hands are always—the just in-places—juices
of longevity, recipe as offspring’s keepsake, not shared.
Grandma also breathes, like us, but more like trees.
She says little, as her body. She used to dance
salsa in sexy shreds. Led, learning to be, through
a mix of hot beats and boys’ caress, blush wasn’t
counted on. Care, she says, is like beef cubes
in broth, stuggy no matter how you stir, not like powder--
(she likes using “not like” more than “unlike”). What she
cares after years and years? Between trees, she says,
there is a myth. Once you stare into the gap
between trees that hits the one-hundredth time
of the swing, you can hear the trees sing. “I like your
singing more than the trees’,” I tell her. “I just sing
like the trees, my dear,” she giggles. My father
told me that he really heard the trees sing
like an angel when he was four. I wondered if
it was just my grandma singing between trees when
hanging up the wash of a family of ten kids, three aunts,
and two brothers in the backyard for half a day.
But my father said that she never whistled, not
even singing. Does singing like the trees
mean singing badly or singing like an angel, who
can only sing like an untouchable nymph
luring people to seek no matter how many
years have passed, so as to make it into one
of the carelists when dozing off between trees?
Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing in the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favourite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.
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