What?
Why do you look at me, tree?
Because my branches are bare?
Because my bark is soft and colorless?
Because I will never be as tall as you?
Never dance with your abandon in the wind?
What do you expect of me, tree?
I don’t have your patience to be so still.
That I scream when I’m hurt?
That I weep at the loss of my kind?
That I need to talk?
Be frightened?
Make up stories?
That the years will wear me out before you,
and my death will be quick
and leave the aroma of grief in the air?
What, tree, do we have that belongs
to both of us?
Our roots?
The place where beginning started?
Something in our trillions of atoms
that recognize each other,
and give each other the color of shade?