Your hair is like a pair of wings blowing in the wind,
Sharing this moment with a bald headed man like me.
You could have been anywhere you wanted,
But you responded to me.
You left the defenseless sky to be in the arms of a tree,
That’s rooted by the ocean.
As the wind picks up, like a wave out the sky,
You try to hold onto my arm, instead of fly.
It means so much to me to know you don’t want to leave my side.  
But as the sunset’s and every brush of wind paints the sky,
I know you must fly, high, like the ocean waves, kicking back the tide.
No words could be said, not even goodbye.
And though I’d give all the green I have to have you by my side,
I will forever hold this feather of yours that you left behind, to remain, to remind.  

A bird in the tree is worth two in the sky/a leafless tree that holds nothing but a feather

You pulled me close and I smelled leather,
the scent of rain clinging and weaving
through you like ivy. Your breath rustled
like the trees we climbed together, laughing
and carefree. My eyes were blue as the dead
sea and yours only looked at me. We
sat in those branches, warm and safe.

Sometimes in the dark the smell of morning
dew and fresh leather hits me and I feel
a melancholy too intense to understand.
I hear your breath next to me. My eyes
used to be blue as the dead sea, yours
are a distant memory. Now I sit in these
branches, cold and alone, wondering
when you will come home to me.

~~ Ah, the shivers of loneliness along my arms. ~~
Nylee 2d

tell us
how to be
They patiently
wait for their fruits
And give them away to anyone
Nor they ever deny us their shade
Their leaves may change colour
with changing climate

MU 2d

Tell me the story
About the war
And the mother
Who used to worry
Under your branches
About her son so far
Away from her
In the trenches

About the two lovers
Who used to coddle
Each other
Next to you
Who carved their name
On your trunk
Who promised
To remain
A couple
And never let
Their flame
And wait
Until the war
Comes to an end
So they can

Tell me
Of the little girl
Who used to scream
And jump
Around your trunk
And sometimes pump
Into you
So that you
Would rain
A few leaves
On her hair

What about...
The fire!
Who brought you hell
So that
You can’t tell
All the secrets
You know
To the crow
And inspire
The young men
Sitting there
To write stories
About you

Tell me
About your story..

If trees could only talk...
Danika 2d

my favorite picture of myself
was taken in a redwood forest

I stood next to a tree
at the age of seventeen
and the height of six feet
and about 130 pounds

and for once
I felt short
and not the giant myself


Friends are a lot like
leaves of a tree,
or roots of a tree.

They're in your life for
a few seasons and fly,
or in your life forever...

Maybe this metaphor is why I feel so uprooted anymore...

Then terraces of long gone estates,
Amalgamated with the trees and ground,
Being absorbed by nature,
assimilated back into,
The woods from whence it came.

Chaetura 7d

Mountainside flora—
milky-petaled dogwoods veil
flame azalea blooms

We were lovers before we were friends.
You wanted to build a nest in my tree
before bothering to climb it
or learning me
to see whether or not my branches
could hold your home
filled with things upon things.
You wanted big things
nice things
shiny and expensive things.
You didn't want to decorate me,
you wanted to use me like a coat rack
to hold your winter coat
over summer.
You never asked if I liked things.
You assumed
that there are things I like
and things that I don't like
but it isn't things that I want -
it's people
and feelings
and moments.
It's everything that can't be bought
that brings me joy.
But you,
you were so sure
that if you filled my mouth with
it would mute the sound of my discontent.
But it only made me creak louder.
And when you tried to keep my hands busy
with the job of holding the things
you bought for me,
you thought
it would stop me from
pushing you away
when you whispered at night
that you loved me,
and now it was my turn to say thank you
by doing things
written in fine print
at the bottom of your receipts.
But you can't pay me to stand tall,
to hold your things high off the ground
when the flood waters rise.
You can't place your coins in a slot
to make a tree bend to your wind
or let you tether off your boat
to weather a storm beneath her limbs.
You slipped me so many tips,
but I don't have a price.
We were lovers before we were friends,
and we were strangers long
before we said goodbye.

A few drivers,
mid-summer afternoon

lean against the divider,
paint peeling

some perch on it lightly---
indulge in hot group-talk;

the waltzing-shadow
of a banyan tree
opposite side of the
auto-rickshaw stand---

a street-art, delicate, dark-hued;

the phantom arms
the disparate crew
in a tight family-embrace,
its breath tousling their hair

and it---
protects them from
the Mumbai heat!
@Sunil Sharma

A real scene witnessed and then embellished.
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