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The trees are not moving
in the gentle breeze
the reds and greens and yellows
Do not touch
Thier arms lay as if dead
As if waiting
For someone to come along
And say
"Wake up little ones
it is time to dance
time to open your eyes and see"

Thier trunks
tall and strong
ancient and wizened
stand idle
Un-moving faces carved into a hillside
No one leans over
And brushes himself or herself together
They are waiting
For someone to take command
And say
"Forget your pride
your stiff backs
we were meant to bow
to sway
to embrace oour neighbors
over and over again
untill we are one"

Somehow the leaves
those beautiful, vibrant leaves
forgot how to speak
and in doing so
killed off a forest
unable to touch
each one simply existed
each one one prettier than the other
untill all that was left
was nothing
silent
beautiful
nothing

i close my eyes
and whisper into the breeze
"i am not a tree"