knuckled extensions on the fingers of trees
rattle like rain sticks,
their crinkled counterparts scurry across the grass
disguising themselves as field mice
fleeing from the grey clouds.
warbling from the sparrows in the hall
distract me from the television of paned glass.
and meanwhile, back where focus should be solid,
language is used, and wasted, and lost.
understanding sits on a fine, fragile line
where you'd rather be sipping on the freedom of understanding
than feasting on that which is wisdom.
the trees understand that reaching is their only goal
and the dried leaves of yesterday know their role in reincarnation,
but each is also aware of the demise of the other.
and all the people in all the houses,
sheltered by the scabbed and scarred hands of their ancestors,
remain focused towards the scattered, schizophrenic bright light
of the screens in their living rooms
and are completely blinded.
be aware that your senses are the most holy of gifts.
while outside, the planet continues to breathe
and the trees keep reaching.