You can always make an assumption.
It’s the closest of low hanging fruit.
Next is the educated guess, then
the researched opinion. On the ground
we find (bruised, but still serviceable)
borrowed conclusion, among maggot’s
homes—no opinion, and, fermenting,
no consideration. Nourishing
enough, apparently. Climb the tree.
First the bark’s roughness will tear at you.
Higher, it smooths, where the will of wood
—given to wind, usually—is
giving to you. Is it worth the climb?
You’re asking now? Who are you asking?
Perhaps a breaking branch betrays your
conflict with gravity. Oh, how sad.
Or perhaps not. You climb, carefully,
clinging to instinct, intellect,
providence, luck—in turn and tandem,
intertwined, all evidenced in you
not falling on your head. That last reach,
that stretch of neck into pure light—Well!
Your wedging and worming are finished
but feet and hands must believe bending
twigs you only feel. Here you’ll find fruit
—some perfect, some pecked by birds. Are you
ready to reach across the shaking
leaves and take some and ask your question?
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