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A poem by Bianca Jean Philippe, Senior You’re jogging.
Your ratty skechers pound the leaf-littered concrete. Your shoulders shake and heave. Your throat seizes with heat. Look up-- darker than night are leaves. Stare-- as your limbs leave control. Royal Oak branches straggle and cut the clouds of coal. There-- Over rows of houses, Royal Palms, the sentries and the harbingers of the land beneath your feet, stoically salute. They sway without regret in the wind carving a halo above Florida’s head. These trees have been here for centuries. These trees have stood since the Seminoles, bloodied and banished, fled beneath a blind of boughs; since the Rosewood survivors struggled through underbrush fire sharpening their shadows; since there were people to protect and pray for and mourn. These trees are true natives to Florida. These are her steadfast denizens. Urge— your cells to be made of the same stuff as their bark, to share that degree of bravery. Your soles start to sway as you quicken. Because to sway is to live, and to live is to be like trees. Trees dare tragedy. Photography By Meyling Yi Nikon D3300 18-55 mm, captured October 17, 2015 Troy, New York I took these photos on a college fly-in trip to Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. My friends who live locally took me to see my first apple tree, and I was so amazed by its existence that I had to capture this moment. |
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