Green Paint and Seeds

I sit back and watch
the green paint dry
around my hands,
cracked and coated. 

I hold a handful of brown
soil 
in my palms,
a green sprout peeking out. 

I wait for the tree I planted
years ago
to burst up
and touch the stars. 

I grasp small seeds
in my fists,
leaving a trail behind me
until I throw my arms up
and open my hands
and twirl as the seeds
rain down on me. 

There are mountains before us,
hills that seem to roll over and turn
in their noiseless sleep. 
I wonder if trees were torn from their ground
like trees have been torn from mine.