Story of the Big, Big Tree

by Darryl Price


The world is beginning to lose its hair.

They litter the streets and scrape along merrily

in the wind like one last turn of

the world defying knob. But the thing I

want to say is how beautiful everything still

looks today inside of that inevitable loss of

wild head-space. It's like the big trees are

left on lamps and the stained glass leaves


are the round and around lampshades, illuminating the

well-worn landscapes of our lives with an incredible

inviting blanket after blanket of borrowed sun slices.

Time as monster has caught all of my

battery operated friends by the weary throat it

seems. They've all been shaken good and hard,

to another color altogether. Many of us look

washed out. But we look the same in


the eyes somehow, but something is going, I

can feel it, too. The boats can only

take us out so far. Sooner or later

we must return to the foolish shore and

walk up the muddy planks and into the

yellow rooms we know so well as saints.

I don't know what kind of goodbye I'll

finally make of this cruel play. You'll probably


do okay. It would be better to be

funny. That's what I think. I don't know.

I have no jokes that don't include looking

at the stars. I can't help it where

my mind goes. I was given the blues

at a very young age. I don't want

to fight. I'm only trying to give you

a guarantee of respect, but I can't dance.