One by one they led us to a room with a stool and a camera and a blank screen.
And took a DNA sample of our souls for a square in a frame to disperse on the winds.
And that small person smiling on the stool was me, a leaf snapped off a tree.
Is the soul of a tree the same, what’s beneath?
And if that’s true our souls need light and nourishment too.
And none of it fits into a frame in any real way.
No, the old school photos are just a sliver, a leaf in a book: a memory, hardly real.
The same as how we present ourselves, hardly real.
The trees will outlast us and the photos too. What about the soul?
Does it stay underground like the roots of a tree? Or drift like a leaf, to another form?
Or is it like Walt Whitman says, my soul is in all things, every blade of grass.
Or like Gordon Sumner, a little black spot on the sun today?
Mine is in a tiny box looking back at me: a sample is all we get to see.