The trees used to dance for me, particularly this one. Full branches, set back in the middle of a pasture. During spring and summer you could see it revel in its own foliage. Driving by in my car, it would twirl, showing its plumage. But for a shoulder, I would have stopped. I couldn't keep my eyes from the tree and luckily the road was more often empty than not.
Once I saw that first, most beautiful tree spin and show off, I saw them all. Each dance similar but changed and new in the next tree. So alive and so joyful.
But they don't dance any more. I don't know if I got older or if they got older. I drive by that same pasture at the same time and that first tree tries and I watch. For every failed start, I just add hope to the next time I drive past my tree.
This is a postcard to my favourite tree. I used it as a monologue, only the last paragraph was improved.
Once I saw that first, most beautiful tree spin and show off, I saw them all. Each dance similar but changed and new in the next tree. So alive and so joyful.
But they don't dance any more. I don't know if I got older or if they got older. I drive by that same pasture at the same time and that first tree tries and I watch. For every failed start, I just add hope to the next time I drive past my tree.
This is a postcard to my favourite tree. I used it as a monologue, only the last paragraph was improved.
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