The Anatomy of a 34-Year-Old Man

Imagine yourself walking through
a forest of giant redwood trees.

Your neck craning up and up
because after all—
the question at the beginning
tends to be
where does it all end?

Imagine as you step softly
through this parliament of trees,
a quiet so quiet
you’re left ample space to feed
even your hungriest of thoughts.

Tree after tree after tree
you see that what you’ve stepped into
is a brotherhood,
a silent choir,
an old story that is still figuring out
how to tell itself.

Imagine that there,
in the graceful wilderness,
where the ferns learn to thrive
in the shadow of time,
there in front of you
is a white tree,
no less tall than the others,
no less wide than the others,
but shining with a magic
that cannot be anything
but embraced.

Shining like it caught sight
of the moon itself and wanted
nothing more than to become it.

I look
in the mirror
each morning
at the single white hair
in the vast forest of trees
that carve the edges
of my face,
and I know I know
that there it will stay,

my own little microcosm
of moon,

my reminder of magic,

curved like a question mark
at the end of the sentence—
where does it all end?



Image: Mick Haupt


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