I want to bang you in a wicker basket
With ropes around us
And a ball of hot air above us

I want to almost fall out
At least five times
And then realize it's ok
Because I'd love to die
While free-fall ******* you

I want to do it in a storm
With thunder in the distance
And right between us

I want the wind to pick us up
And carry us toward a mountaintop
So we can have a picnic
In a grassy area looking over
And you can sit on my shoulders
To see just a little bit further

I've never been in a hot air balloon
But I want start with you

For many years we were planted in this soil together.
We grew from seeds to saplings, our roots entangled.
Now there are thick forests separating us,
and I have been replanted into such foreign ground.
Sporadically I catch your leaves on a gust of wind.
They tell of how you are no longer a young seedling.
They tell of  how you are thriving in our soil,
even with my roots no longer intertwined into yours.

We have learned to blossom in our own earth.
And someday we will become only stumps of what we once were.
We will no longer flourish with fruits and flowers on our branches.
But my roots will still know yours,
and they will remember where they were once interlaced in our beginnings.

I see you, crouched in the corner of your
temple. I want to help you emerge
and uncover you from the shrouds you
have set upon yourself, but I can not
always be the roof in your structure.
I can only be a visitor, paying my respects
on occasion. You must learn to be your
own walls and pillars. Hold up your own
foundation, through whatever weather your
temple faces.

I am urged to
dissect my midsection
and count the rings
that tell the tale of
the years I have
lived.

I want to show you
every line and let
you see my past
right before your
own eyes.