The Bellowing Wind ("Faceted Life" Sequel; Poem)

I stooped and bent myself in half,
in order to re-enter the tent
where she still sat, sublime silence drifting towards me.
I felt the outside din folding in upon itself,
like shy violin chirps grown suddenly quiet.

"Here," the old lady beckoned with a finger,
bent like leather left too long in the sun.
I stepped carefully over mounds of carpets,
worn thin by feet seeking other stories,
threadbare from ceaseless pounding and cleaning, and took a seat.

"It is simple, as I said," she told me,
"but you must walk down complicated roads first,
and learn how to talk to trees."
"Wait, talk to trees?" I questioned, curious,
even as the humming wind outside grew into an agitated note.

"Certainly, my strange interloper,
how else will you learn how to create?" the old lady croaked,
as she let the words bonce around the tent,
seeking solace and solitude away from the growing gale.
Her eyes still sought mine hungrily, beneath her weathered face.

Glancing nervously upwards,
I attempted to wrestle meaning from her statement,
as waves of tent canvas fought each other for freedom
from their earthly spikes,
and the kerosene lamp spluttered, afraid of the coming darkness.

"I'm afraid of you," I intoned evenly, carefully.
"I'm terrified of walking out there, seeing what I must do,
and knowing you will not be here when I return."

"Perhaps when you know the language of trees,
and when you have sat quietly enough with your cold heart,
will you know where to find me," she said,
as the tent tore free with a thump,
and spun me into the darkness.