his smell is not so sweet,
I think, folded
like dough in the crooks of his arms
but it is home.

HOME –
where I can feel free grass between
my toes
and go splorin’ forever!

but it seems that I will always be
chained, to the earth
like a stump:
mossy and passive and still
while he floats above me
all silk wings and eagle eyes:
today, he asks me to STRETCH
just a
little
bit
more.

I will try,
but in doing so,
please know
dear reader
that I have spread my roots till
my bark has begun to crumble like
crunchy brown tears and
my rings have shuddered in fatigue
and I have SOBBED!
birds and trees are made of different stuff,
you know.

so I am sure that trees pray
because they spend their lives
flirting with stars and clouds
(god is made of stars and clouds.)

so I am sure that trees weep
because they spend their lives
flirting with stars and clouds
(and neither stays still for long.)

however
(because
all great stories conceal the inescapable HOWEVER!
somewhere in the folds of their cloaks)
today you asked me to:
“I don’t know. Come play with me?”
and I felt a few feathers
flutter hopefully across my roots.

It is a good day to be a stump.