tree
Ai Qing
Tree by tree. They stand apart from each other, and the wind and air tell them the distance. But under the cover of soil, their roots are sticking out, in the invisible depths. They are wrapped around the roots.
I need a tree.
I need trees, I need strength, so that people who breathe oxygen can walk into a year. Plant a big tree, call it matter, enter the annual ring and change. On the path, no longer afraid of the loss of species, birds plunged into the sunset. The little trees have grown up, and I miss them. A piece of sunshine, a layer of air, a drop of water, drives the green vines to shake the spring crisp, telling the tree species and order. The little girl seems to be a water duck, unable to restrain her surprise. Deep in the forest, no one found the original grove. There are so many trees, bearing the sunshine and hanging the sound. Once the little trees called themselves. Shout out seeds and rain, call people to move their feet and get close to the sky, as if they were well-intentioned machines, lifted by green and dragged into small shadows.