Brother, bring me all your books.

I want to read your thoughts

All left in margins on the right,

The insight that you wrought

From words pressed in the steel

Of printing press and author’s will.

You’ve gathered all the pieces

And made your own true painting still.

If all we are is what we choose

To wholly own or just in part,

I know that I could learn your mind

And find myself inside your art.

We aren’t so different, you and I,

And how we think, so similar,

Even our shoes would feel the same,

Foot-to-foot and sinister.

Sequoiadendron giganteum

You’ve grown much taller than  me,

Stronger too, with thicker skin

And a head closer to the sky

Where I’m sure

You can see so far,

Clearly and without the pain

Of memory.

You’ve had more time than me

To make your joy

And peace

And shrug off every doubt

Like last year’s leaves.

Do you teach a class

On the types of growth?