Trees get to dance, you know.
I’ve seen them with my own eyes
even though they instantly stop
and pretend they were rooted all along.
I caught this one today, decked out
in his viney autumn garb, chanting
the ancient songs of harvest,
of reaping and gathering in.
He was wonderful, and so still
that not a part of him moved, only
the vine wound around him
fluttering in the dry breeze.
I walked on, pretending I believed
he was nothing more than the
broken trunk of a weathered tree.
But the song of his spirit followed me
across the whole, broad valley.