Pretty Moon

What emotional beings we are.
No, no. Not everyone is. I always forget that.

Caught up in your nest of life…
I mean I am caught in my nest of life.
But Jesus, this is a huge tree.
And look across the way—is that another tree?

Some people just don’t feel it.
Not like I do.
They don’t hear the whispers in the wind,
They don’t see—they don’t even look for the kindness in the eyes,
not like I do.

That tree is beautiful. The bark is much darker and the trunk is skinnier, but just as supportive.
Different feathers gather at the roots of it,
and I don’t feel as though the kinds are much different.
You’re a bird, I’m a bird.

I’m a girl, you’re a boy.
I’m a woman..
And you’re a man?
It doesn’t matter what you are.

How special can we be if we are all so special?

And what if I don’t want to be a bird or a lady
And I want to be the tree or the grass or the pretty Moon?

As I spoke of her, her sigh passed through me and the early-fallen leaves rustled
And refused to fly too far.

What would our naked souls do?

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