Dancing is what the trees do,
on a sun-sleepy ocean of inky leaves....
hammocks in green pools,
clovers that touch their rounded hands
to the nearest child
and those who lay beneath their trunks.
They keep no clothes inside,
their bark is nature's purest,
their branches as visiting family
who wave hello with the wind.
In a way, they are the tallest
shadow makers that many see,
delicate arms holding scarves
of thinly woven shapes,
that cluster or breathe independently
into what we call silhouettes.
There are those who only find
themselves staring at wood
but others, the color minded,
see more than ordinary oak-
they watch silence travel like silk
and fingers with fabric of tulips
trying to mean something more.
Even at night's still chime
or storm's chasing force
the trees are no different than
you and me; we both have destiny-
we may not always find shelter,
but we have the sky to look up to
and the stars to watch us when
memory takes our dance;
the corners of our eyes have dimmed
with winter's descendent,
but dear, the wind is always within us,
and no matter how fragile we become,
our dance will move like ocean tides
and bring happiness- no matter how soft
or subtle to those wandering....
where love entangles them.
