wildcat

At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.

Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.

In the unpredicted wind, it sways

back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining

If I had nine lives, I would spend the first one jumping from a tall mountain, the wind in my hair, and filling my lungs, the full feeling of freedom. After that, maybe I'd find peace and wouldn’t fear the mountains.

They don't think I notice

They don't think I notice how stingy we're becoming:

They don't think I notice the reluctance to use the propane heat.

They don't think I notice how cold it is when I crawl out of bed every morning.

I’ve never been religious much —

My Faith is in the trees.

The sort of Lord I worship flies among the Bumblebees.

And my idea of Heaven is buried ‘neath Her leaves —

a lesbian couple on my bus home from school 

a man in a punk battle jacket on the street 

my mother's female CEO group chat blowing up 

four of my teachers taking the following day off 

this is not a poem. 

this is not a song.

this is not metaphor, a sonnet, an ode, not a ballad, a rant, not even a dream–

this is a plea.