Timber Pulse

The tree does not grow straight.

It jerks upward in fractured lines,

splinters of will gnawing at sky.

Bark cracked like old television screens,

patterns distorted,

a signal that refuses clarity.

Wind claws at its branches,

static of air turned violent,

leaves snapping like loose wires.

Every gust a reminder

that the world wants collapse.

And yet the trunk hums low,

a droning resistance

that will not shut off.

Roots bite stone,

wiring themselves into places

meant to reject them.

There is no grace in their spread..

only grit, only hunger,

a network of refusal

coursing under soil

like interference.

It endures not by peace

but by noise.

A hiss of sap beneath bark,

a surge that does not quiet.

Even stripped bare,

its silhouette spits defiance

against the gray wash of horizon.

Some trees grow to be admired.

This one survives in distortion,

raw signal bleeding into the air...

unwelcome,

unpolished,

but undeniably there.

It stands because falling

would mean silence.