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