i decided to be a tree one afternoon
so i stood tall as possible, relaxed —
my hair my branches, fighting wildly with
the wind
air currents kissing my trunk,
my bark, rustling my leaves
i looked solemnly at the beech, or
birch, or sycamore, which stared
back at me unmoved by curiousity
it was starting to bud
and i longed to have something
burst forth from my being, some
joyful essence declare itself
a girl came sidling by, and her
face told me that frankly she thought
i was mental
and perhaps i was for wishing to
have branches and bark and buds
but i had always believed in dryads
i stood there still, writing poetry in
my head the way i’m sure
trees do on their off days
it is hard to describe how a tree
feels personally and how you
personally feel about trees to
people with no imaginations
trees never bother to explain themselves
