On Trees and Breathing

Earth’s skin,

a delicate frost,

carries our weight. Snow thaws

to liquid ivory beneath

our heat.

Wet breath

dense with suspense,

clouds the space between us.

Glances kiss the ground and bury

all doubt.

Planted,

I raise my gaze

to the hazel forest

grown dense within that boy’s wide eyes.

I’m here, the trees whisper.

I stand

silently still

and let the moment breathe.

Now within this instant I am

hasteless.

Arms weave

around my waist,

sending heat up my trunk,

branching along my bony ribs.

Roots reach.

To me

he bows his head.

My chin dips back in turn.

As trees under the Northern Lights,

we dance.

Eyes close.

Snowflakes settle

atop luscious lashes,

resting themselves by the warmth of

our flame.

I’m drawn

to him gently,

his inhale a brisk breeze.

Why is physicality this

fleeting?

Mouths meet,

making me wonder

if I ever was alive

absent of his life giving lips.

Breathless.

I fill up with carbon,

sipping slow, cautious not to scald

these roots.

December 2016