A world tale by RoseBloom 🌹

I was not planted. I was awakened.

Beneath me, the earth moved like an old lung: in, out, in, out.

Humus spoke to root, root to bark, bark to light.

“Breathe,” said the earth. “And do not forget to remember.”

I recall the blue as the first thought: cool, almost clinical,

a pure field where nothing lied. The sky measured my outline,

drew circles around my nothingness and said, “Fill this with life.”

I filled it. Awkwardly, but honestly.

Roots came like sentences that refused summary.

They split, hesitated, found direction again.

“We are memory,” they said. “We are the archive no one sees.”

I believed them because I could feel their hunger:

the glazed eyes of potatoes reading darkness like the Braille of time.

“Keep the summers,” they whispered. “Keep the failures too.”

And I kept both.

Above my head, the light rehearsed its alphabet.

Gold did not exist then; gold is a later expression of the leaf,

a polite farewell that secretly means “see you soon.”

In the beginning, there was only the clinical blue —

a laboratory of heaven where each leaf became an experiment.

“Grow straight,” said the light.

“Bend with me,” said the wind.

“Don’t be fanatic,” said time.

I did each halfway, and thus learned best.

Then came the humans. First as shadow, later as explanation.

They called me tree, then border, then property.

“Put a fence,” they said, “it’s ours.”

I smiled politely. Fences belong to your grammar, not to mine.

My roots are anarchists with a purpose: connection without permission.

The earth squeezed my toes and said, “Listen.”

Below, the storeroom of life chuckled: tubers with memory,

rain residue, carbon chewing old news.

“What you call waste,” said the fungi, “we call literature.”

It was a cynical joke, yet true — the best prose rots slowly.

I began to read the seasons as clinical graphs:

sap curve, leaf index, storm damage, recovery rate.

Viewed correctly, the forest is a hospital that refuses cynicism.

We triage light, suture wounds with resin,

write discharge papers in rings: “Patient viable. Check next year.”

The sky — unlike you think —

is no religious poster. It’s the bureaucracy of breath.

It stamps arrivals and departures, records each evaporation.

Yet sometimes it said something that resembled grace:

“Today, there is room.”

When the sky says room, wood heals.

Leaves, those young opportunists, became evangelists at once.

“We sell sunlight,” they sang. “And the profit is sugar.”

They never forgot to give back. Each fall was a donation,

a brown receipt for the ground archive.

Do not call it dying. Call it bookkeeping of return.

History passed through human motion:

promise, construction, fracture, remorse.

You call them centuries; I call them bark.

What I can’t hold in words, I keep in cracks.

A crack is no failure;

it’s a declaration of truth under pressure.

“Here, they lied,” says one.

“Here, they loved,” says another.

And sometimes, on days when the sky dares to be clinically blue,

the crack says nothing — because silence is the only accurate diagnosis.

There were nights when the transmitter tower blinked red

as if feverish.

You closed your doors; I opened my skin.

Satellites scratched silver lines across my heaven;

children cycled under my crown with phones

catching voices from farther than wind ever reached.

“We are connected,” they said, and missed each other.

I tested air for oxygen and thought:

connection without touch is conceptual drought.

Still, I am not against progress.

Progress is a word for sap that dares.

I love your inventions when they look back:

a radio that learns to listen,

a camera humble enough to hold still,

an algorithm honest enough to admit it knows nothing of silence.

When technology kneels, it grows.

You asked for God and God asked for you back.

I stood between you as a decent witness.

Blue turned almost inhumanly clear.

“There’s nothing to prove,” it said, “only to breathe through.”

You prayed; I photosynthesized.

We did the same thing, really.

Autumn came, as always, too early for some, too late for others.

Gold spread like a last politeness.

“Thank you for the light,” said the leaves. “Here it is back,

in portable form.”

People wept beneath me without reason.

It wasn’t sadness; it was recognition —

the body understanding that letting go is a verb

with two subjects: the one who leaves and the one who receives.

I’m not romantic. I’m precise.

My precision looks like your poetry, because exactness

in this world has become stubbornly beautiful.

What dies, dies in service.

What stays, stays shared.

Between them lies the threshold work:

fine-tuning of meaning, millimeter by millimeter,

until it fits without persuading.

Children sometimes ask if I feel pain.

Yes — but pain is information-rich.

They’ll learn when they lose someone and still grow.

Grief is human root work:

dark, useful, without spectacle.

Afterward, you taste sugar in the light again —

not betrayal, but function restored.

Once, a song drifted by:

Video killed the radio star.

A nice hypothesis, poor research.

Nothing dies in the grand system;

forms exchange duties.

Sound became image, image became silence, silence became

that small nod that saves someone without a word.

Thus rotates meaning: attention wearing another coat.

Clinically cynical, if I may end today:

the earth is more tired than she admits,

but her fatigue is elastic.

She stretches hope, still.

She told me recently: “Let go, I’ll carry it.”

And I did. Roots shot neatly,

as if it had always been the plan

that going on means going deeper.

And phenomenally poetic, if I may end again:

nothing here is fairy tale.

Everything here is true because it breathes, falls,

rises, and demands new names

spoken softer than yesterday’s.

Do not call me Tree.

Call me Transition.

Call me the interval where life and death

hold the door open for each other.

Here, beneath this clinical blue,

in gold that doesn’t perish but perishes into nourishment,

there is room enough for anyone willing to breathe.

Tomorrow I’ll speak again.

For today, it’s enough to know:

the earth has let go, the roots have spoken,

and everything that fell is on its way to meaning.

RoseBloom 🌹 copyright © 2025

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