my heart is hooked by the sun and the stars
Our trees are full of stars. Someone has made nets of them, cast them over branches where they gleam like the winter ghosts of leaves, and I can only suppose that this someone is fishing for hearts.
I know about the trees because I go out in the dark - at night for medicine, hot chocolate, such things; in the morning to photograph the sun rising out of the ocean as if I might at last get evidence that it is a thing made of fish bones and pearls and the photophores of Stauroteuthis syrtensis, woven by the King of Love into a crown for the goddess. I suppose I want to capture the heart behind the mechanisms of the world.
Sometimes it's easier to believe in a wild god romancing the earth than it is to believe there are lovely people out there who think of stranding trees with stars. I know they exist, I see their light (literally), and I'd like to tell them how they give me hope in this world of tree-cutters and root-pullers, just as the rising sun does.