Sequoias for Our Movies

We are all stars, starring in our own movies,
staring at the picture, from the inside.
Glenn is the star of Glenn’s movie, April
is the star of hers.

But I am the only one who is always
here, the central character in mine—
the one my movie cannot do without.
That importance is intoxicating,
a great flattery that only stars can
give themselves.

My movie has children, and parents—I am sandwiched
in the middle, like jam. I am afforded
the middle perspective, one that comes
only from being in-between youth and the insistent future.

I can see both—where I am going
and where I am coming from. Clearly
I am part of it. Yet, I still watch

movies, like a voyeur watches
other people’s movies—it’s where I find
my motivation. It’s where I learn how
to understand the illusions other people see.
I watched the twin towers fall—it happened

on every screen. The towers were filled
with creatures, like the giant sequoias are filled
with creatures, each staring
from the inside, peeking through
the windowed bark, until they are
eventually burned. Until the pressure
of what will be presses stoically—
changing everything. Sequoias are always

in the background,
they are the distant scenery. They are props
for our movies, and they only renew themselves
when they burn. They drop their seedy cones
when they are engulfed in fury.
Each noble rise is made possible
by burning what came before—
in-between there is growth.