Farewelling Geppetto

The old man hardly dents the bed;

chest sinks into a sea-green song's depths.

The candle light flickers, casts shadows

upon the ceiling and wall as if friends

have gathered. The middle of the night

meets the dawn with a fork –

fool's choice offered at the last.

Pinocchio holds the withered hand

that once gently held him; strokes

the knuckles and nails, feels pain as his wood

atomically realigns into flesh - regrets

choices made along the way.

He removes his shoes and socks 

so that his feet touch the floorboards beneath, 

feels a comfort in the wood, in the memories

contact with the past can bring.

Looks at his joints, elbow and knee, 

ankle and wrist; regrets that he is supported 

by gravity and nothing else.

'Strings force steps

but at least they offer

an uncomplicated path,' he whispers 

as he stares at the chest

of Geppetto - it seeks the distant shore.

'Existence is easy as a tree

or a log to be burnt,'

he whispers at three

in the morning. The old man's chest

creaks like an old galley ship

then moves no more.

Pinocchio knows no prayers to say over the body,

cannot see the spirit leave the flesh, feels

tears slide down cheeks that once sprouted 

leaves instead; cries into the dark

'Geppetto is dead!

Now I understand what it is to be alive,

Geppetto is dead!’ 

The boy who was a tree 

feels his toes wriggle, understands their desire 

to break past the floorboards and enter the earth – 

their need to seek sustenance

in a connection to everything abandoned.