Babygirl can you recognize the language of the tress, the whispers of leaves, the laughter of the wind, the waves of warmth from the summer breeze?
Bare feet touch grassy green, roots embed as they lock in–
feeding as I grow, I suckle the trickles of savory, sweet sap,
I gnaw on the ripe, poisonous berries, purple dripping from my maw,
My bark grows, stretching, expanding, covering my mouth, muffling my screams of terror.
The forest of Yesterdays and the trees of Tomorrow,
cackle as they sway back and forth, at us, the creatures of the Now–
from their grand height, they watch us writhe in our own filth, kill with our bare hands, love the wrong people, time again, time again…
Wouldn’t it be easier if we succumbed to the dexterous tongue of the branches and herbs? Inhale in rotation, breathe with a delicate ease, burn as we cackle, dance–dance as we live, our future, once guarded by thick, tough, intertwined vines, unravel as we become.
Leave the urban, fast-paced society, the nagging, the gray, thick smog
And root yourself and become one of the forsaken ones–
They hear the whispers, the whispers of the small creatures with pointy ears and the beasts with many eyes and pronounced snouts–
Wont you come with me, grab my hand as I lead you astray from the conventional path of light–for the shrouded forest with blue-tinged leaves, please?
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 