Leafy, waving branches with leaves
Leaves as big as a hand,
Alive, moist, damp with life
Green as a go sign, but deeper, brighter
More alive and beaming with gratitude and gladness
For that fact.
(Wrapping and piling to give alot)
They wave together, like an orchestra or something tidal
The sun shines through them but they obey the wind.
Like laughter they dance together
Nothing, no, really, truly, Nothing can change her mind
About living and the beauty of life.
A child, ignorant of her rings, she dances.
I haven't told you about the width of the trunk at the
Anywhere I want to go, I will go
Not angry, just powerful, determined and firm.
Rough, scratchy and humming with life
By grace a human is allowed some knowledge, some closeness,
but not all.
Open your mouth, bite, suck.
You will taste something.
I decided to mirror myself. I went here and I found a reason to breathe. I went there and I found a reason to breathe.
It was not reasonable.
They clamber up on me. Pull, not scratch.
But I am scratchy.
And you have clambered up inside me.
Seeking shade, solitude, to be nearer to the wind.
I have forgiven you.
I want to see and feel and know you eating an apple.
I want to see and feel and know you sleeping.
Wave, Wave, slowly I'll settle in.
How your hand is like and not like a tree.
I know there is longing to see your hand on a tree.
That closeness, that intimacy that every human has with trees.
You are a man and you have the same roughness, ruggedness, that same toughness and power to survive,
Yet to do so you must be pliable and smooth and sensitive.
And above all you both are alive.
Humming and flowing and shining, even pulsing, underneath the surface of oneness.
How you stretch out to cover land, your dimensions protruding in anyway God likes.
She bends and curves with knobs, smooth, uncaring, arbitrary
You stretch and arch, amber and amble
And hawking and pillaring above it all
( one particular tongue does not touch your shoulder blades
most tongues do not touch your shoulder blades
your tongue does not touch your shoulder blades)
But hers does Recline, hands interlaced, supporting your head. Your may not feel her sigh in pleasure, but she surely does.
As do you. As do you.
Caring not if there is a place for your feet, a man as alive as you shares that feeling with the tree.
Women grab your hands and lick them, savoring the feeling of the smooth skin and the raised roots of your veins. Without your consent, only energetically, with their spirits, much in the same way as one would languish over a tree. You, to other women, are like the centerpeice of a garden, making a house a home.
If you want to bend, you will bend. If you want to sway, you will sway. If you want to move, you will move.
If I want to kiss and taste and lick the most interesting parts of a tree, it will not stop me. But if I decide I want to see your back, watch it move, touch it as it is moving, Get on your back and cause you to feel the feeling of the pleasure of my touch, you have the power to stop me.
You are not a slave.