i_talk_to_trees

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

it is spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

she comes from a world

of puddles and stars.

from a world where

lion and lamb play

innocently, happily together.

a world where she wears

her heart on her sleeve,

and hopes and trusts although

emptiness is sort of strange, isn't it?

when you've got

an empty piggybank

or

an empty backpack

it isn't much,

it's nothing really.

but to feel empty,

to feel hollow and frankly

i don't know who i am

nor do i think i ever will

but

i want to be so much.

i want to be a poet,

carefully nurturing

then raising and sharing,

the sustenance of the soul.

every once in a while,

the sky gets tired

and hides its face behind

hands of light gray clouds.

it sighs in quiet thunder,

and lets tears of blue

slip loose, trailing softly down

i long for the times

of snow angels and sledding.

how free we were,

way back when.

we slipped down the hill,

narrowly avoiding several trees,

and mr. wilkins,