i got on a plane (i didn’t)
to look you in the eyes (you said don’t come)
and the sun danced with me (it was raining)
flowers floating, tender embrace (lying alone)
you wouldn’t let go, you breathed me (sobbing silence)
and held, and held, and held (let go)
waiting turned to love (wait)
we are one (alone)
Remember how I waited
for all the words you didn’t say,
like the gasp the sun makes
just before she dives into the sea,
and yellows and oranges turn deep,
into blue foghorn songs in the dusk.
Now I walk dark streets in silence,
to see if your words hang there,
waiting, a song to be collected,
but block after block is empty,
quiet, no words left for me.
I touch you gently, running a finger down your trunk.
You have knots, scars, and holes; I move my hands
across your roughness. Leaning into you, we breathe
together; I listen to your wooden heartbeat, to the rings
of years you have grown, to each of the grabbing roots
you pushed through the earth. You are strong.
You faced wind and rain, snow and cold, on this hilltop,
alone, begging birds to sit with you and lend their songs.
Branches bare and reaching for sun, you no longer hold
your blanket of red and yellow, and we both shiver in the cold,
as your fingers bend and twist skyward in a graceful dance
with the wind. The clouds lean down to hear you whisper, but I say,
“Talk to me,” for I am enchanted by your strength, the turns
of your trunk, and the way you reach for the sky. You have secrets
you’re not willing to tell me, though I throw my arms around you,
scratching my face on the rough of your bark, your arms remain aloft.
I trace a heart with my finger, turn, and walk down the hill,
stopping only once to admire your grace.
You don’t belong to me.
Talking to the Clouds 