adventures as a tree

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