PASCALE PETIT

The Treekeeper's Tale

I have set up house in the hollow trunk of a giant redwood.
My bed is a mat of pine needles. Cones drop their spirals

on my face as I sleep. I have the usual flying dreams.
But all I know when I wake is that this bark is my vessel

as I hurtle through space. Once, I was rocked in a cradle
carved from a coast redwood, its lullabies were my coracle.

I searched for that singing grove and became its guardian.
There are days when the wind plays each tree

like a new instrument in the forest-orchestra.
On wild nights mine is a flute. After years of solitude

I have started to hear its song. I lie staring at the stars
until the growth rings enclose me in hoops –

choirs of concentric colours, as if my tree is remembering
the music of the spheres. And I almost remember speaking

my first word, how it flew out of my mouth like a dove.
I have forgotten how another of my kind sounds.

Lorena Clara Fota

Pascale Petit
 

Povestea pazitorului de copaci
 

Mi-am facut casa in trunchiul gaunos al unui sequoia gigantic.
Pat imi e un pres de ace de pini. Conurile cad in spirale

pe fata mea cand dorm. Visez ca de obicei ca ma inalt in zbor.
Dar tot ce stiu cand ma trezesc e ca aceasta scoarta e nava mea

in timp ce strapung spatiul. Odata am fost dezmierdat intr-un leagan
facut dintr-un sequoia de pe tarm, cantecele lui erau barca mea.

Am cautat acea dumbrava cantatoare si am devenit pazitorul ei.
Sunt zile cand vantul canta la fiecare copac

ca la un instrument nou din padurea-orchestra.
In noptile furtunoase al meu e flaut. Dupa ani de singuratate

am inceput sa-i aud melodia. Stau intins scrutand stelele
pana cand inelele ce cresc cu anii ma inchid in cercuri –

cornuri de culori concentrice, ca si cum copacul isi aminteste
muzica sferelor. Aproape ca-mi aduc aminte

de primul meu cuvant, cum a zburat din gura precum o porumbita.
Am uitat cum suna cuvintele semenilor mei.