© Lera Auerbach - Monoprint
A tree is never just a tree.
Physical distance one can measure.
But what about the distance from oneself?
(Too far – and numbness spreads.
Too close – and you fall apart.)
A book is a tree:
it needs to take hold,
to find nourishment and water.
In its early stages it is fragile,
while the hurricane season is coming.
Where do all unwritten books go?
Completed manuscripts waiting for editors?
Lost publications waiting for readers?
Forgotten lives?
Like a child, a book requires sacrifice.
Its birth is painful.
Ultimately, it is never yours.
Who are you?
You are only its tool –
(and a highly imperfect one at that.)
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