How free, to be a tree.
Just one word, a phrase or two
Something simple, or something new
I left all my plight in a place far away
In the silhouette of an old oak tree
Eagerly awaiting the winds of subtlety
Change that roars, and swirls around me
As it picks me up, I lose sight of the ground
I’ve forgotten my fear
My trunk no longer bound
There’s too much to perceive up here.
For It’s a spectacle of fright
Being projected through the atmosphere.
The sun’s shattered prisms, charming little plans.
Tiny hints of daylight, falling on my hands.
Like weary strangers on their way
Their colors become brighter every day
As they pass by, they proclaim their ode
And they kindly nod, and lighten my load
I give them a smile, as I tie my shoe
I’m a little shy, but I don’t let them get by
Not without a word or two.
These branches, we call hands
Are far from roots laced deep in the ground.
They branch out to who they can
They grow. Softly; without a sound.