On a busy afternoon i sat on the floor,
and i felt someone looking at me.
Through the glass frame peering into room,
Was an old, brown wood tree.
The tree was old, yet rather slim,
And i wondered how it spent it's day.
Was it by feeling the raindrops fall?
Or by watching the children play?
The tree had rusty green leaves,
Dwelling on its branches all along.
When the wind blew and the leaves moved,
They'd whistle it a beautiful song.
The tree was still and i could move,
Yet to me, it felt more alive.
As i could move, still feel stuck.
And it was still, at peace and thrived.
I often envy the brown wood tree,
As it enjoys the sunset of june.
Thinking that, i get up and realize that I'm late,
To continue with my busy afternoon.
Who is at peace?
