What makes the trees whisper in the wind? What do they say?
Come home, come home, come home…
What home? I have gone too far to know what that word means. I have seen many homes, loving and broken, small and expansive. I have watched as they were built, watched as they burned to the ground.
I have seen families torn apart, lives lost, sorrow born. Between all the blood and pain, I have seen the face of gods, devils, and men, all fighting for home.
What home is worth that? Why come home, when all that is left is ashes?
Come home, come home, come home…
Perhaps the trees are children, innocent and trusting in promises and unerringly believing in words spoken. Perhaps they whisper because they fear to speak too loud, fear to wake sleeping parents or something…else.
Come home…
Perhaps it was my voice all along. But it does not change the past. It does not change what has come, what will come. The trees do not know because they are paralyzed. They cannot move, cannot change the sickness that tears at their roots, and so they choose not to know.
They are home. Birth, sickness, pain, death. All with a distant hope of rebirth. An acorn in the ashes. Perhaps it is to them that they call, and not me.
Arcadia's Roost 