Seldom, smiling up at tree branches.
Leaving a finicky reaction toward happiness by watching leafs tether between bright expression, and soulless hopefulness.
Momentarily I was concerned about pretense.
The oak of my burden was only heard by rustling arms reaching toward the heartfelt blue.
I acknowledge the absence of self in every moment that passes, while I wrestle with the idiom as tense.
A childlike wound that phases as trama, but heals like a birth. Anew.
Whisper to her bark.. "please be kind enough to taste the blood from my wound". Groaning toward the maze ahead of me, I can only wonder.
Do trees feel sorrow as they shed their leaves aside them?
Is it wonder that lets them relive the seasons that are to come?
Even as song soaks the heavens of birds landing.
A horrendous joy overwhelms my spirit.
So focused on its passing, I missed its life.
Expressionless, I weep at its roots.
