woodandhoney

I don’t mind the City, I don’t
Occasionally though–not always, but sometimes, when the wind blows hard
and the sound of high heels on payment makes my head hurt–
(like today perhaps) the weight of my inadequacy feels crushing
Those days I would like a meadow, or a forest stream,

maybe some friendly oak or pine trees to talk to
I would tell them my secrets and they would sit, quietly listening
giving me oxygen, not in sympathy,  but soothing nontheless,
perfectly doing what they must,
and the hum of their life would continue, with or without me,
as if to say, “this will pass” because all things must pass and
“what boistorious matter, loud and consuming, can compare to the symphony of our silent song?”
And they would be right of course, my elequently silent oaks
a curved limb bending over like a comforting hand above my head
offering shelter from tomorrow, from
the desk of papers
the weight of time
the confinement of shoes 
and for a perfect moment I could be large and small at once
not caring an ounce but loving as deeply as the roots underneath me