by Stephen Paden
Please talk to me, tree.
Don’t ignore the world.
I see you stretching out to the sun—
do you meant to leave the world by reaching for a cloud,
grabbing on tight, and pulling up your roots?
Your fingers will slip through—
for clouds, like misty love, have very little substance.
You will never leave the ground, but neither will I!
Why don’t we make the best of it and reach for each other?
My hands wrapped around you—
a tangible kiss of skin and wood.
Then you can talk to me;
let the wind whisper through the contours of your rough skin
and into my ears.