The wind blows softly against my skin,
As my hands flow with the music that it makes.
But these treetops You see,
They stifle against them.
These treetops,
So busy they seem.
Fighting To stay in one place.
But Ironically so.
their leaves;
they carry & let go.
They Fly without remorse or reason.
As they travel without trying.
Without telling.
Without fighting.
❤️