☀ Today's Poem: "On Why I Cannot Promise" Carl Phillips

Once, to ring the base of a tree's trunk
meant protection; if the tree died,
or failed to flourish as hoped for,
           then the ring had been somehow
not perfect, or the stones
weren't the right ones; either way,
        protection got confused
with invitation, and what was far,
what we'd hoped to keep far, came
           close, settled in: not love, never
mind what it felt like, and not
regret, which I still can't believe in —
       I've tried — and not shame,
which I long ago lost
sight of, though I remember
        waving to it, as it waved
back to me, its slow
wave back, for hadn't the two of us, for
   a good while, been pretty much
unstoppable, even if it hurt inside,
isn't that where hurt
        belongs, why should you
be different, a question I
still don't get, to be honest. Say the part
         about fear when you're ready to, if you're
ever ready to, you don't have to,
they used to say, with that
         flexibility that distinguishes
the second-tier gods
from the first tier. I couldn't think,
           and then I could think, but as when
there's only starshine for a light
to go by, does that count
           as thinking: we step away, we can
hear them still rattling — dead leaves —
though we hear from afar.