against the window, mashed
the bus home
and i stare at the trees
their branches my fingers
the endless reach to light.
there is such sad beauty in trees�so silent and stoically growing
so patient, the trees.
something about a tree enables me to breathe deeper,
and i know they are purifying the air�it is not just that
but it is something about being calmer
feeling more or less real�that feeling of attachment to nothing while at the same time being firmly rooted.
i try to listen to them, their branches whisper� but mostly they listen, and nod and listen and gently sway, moving the air, circling.
my mother always states that if she were a tree, she would be a weeping willow � it is so easy � after all, few of us are strong enough to be oak, birch, walnut�at least few of us think of ourselves as strong.
everyone has knots and pitch, everyone has their own scars.
i am a sucker for dead trees�for branches�
i have kissed them, but sometimes tears just do no good,
