Where the Wind Comes In

How sad all the trees seem when I think of them
This morning, how bent and puzzled by their own
Grand appearance they look, resting their chins
In the hand of a long sad existence
They can't help thinking of, a hand that must be pained
By the weight of so much sadness when
After all, the trees themselves are so totally happy.
I myself can scarcely contain the happiness I feel
Just knowing how truly painful and grand is the act
Of being a tree as my mind sees it, a tree as proof
Of the existence of trees to be looked at as
Objects about to weep under the strain.
Deep in the boughs of my own puzzling logic
Is a joy I cannot contain, the sheer joy of knowing
I'll never make you understand this happiness that arises
From thinking so long and hard about the sad misunderstanding
That has become, in all honesty,
All I can make of myself in relation to others.
If the wind exists, this is where the wind comes in.
The wind in my logic, making the boughs ache, causing this gasp
Over its existence in my chest
As the air that I breathe, as the breathing inside me,
As the body that is my body bending down in the act
Of being mine where the wind comes in, filled with my breath.
How peaceful my whistling breath is made just by being
The violent song it whistles to, like a gust filling my chest
With a grand and painful sadness that
I can't help dancing over, my short dance to the note
The rooted tree reaches for
Leaping clear from its roots.

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