The wind does not command
the tree. The tree does not dance
until a handsome wind asks. The wind
slips a single finger against the small
of the bark-laced back. The leaves
lean their cheeks against the billowing
shoulder. The two spin in the low
glowing of the sun’s chandelier
as wallflowers wink from other branches.
They keep dancing for what seems
like forever, a graceful gust
around a wooden waist.
Then, when a couple hundred
years of songs have passed, the strong
arm dips, the supple spine
reclines. Verdant hair touches
the forest floor as roots
weightlessly upturn into the air.
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