The leaves look rigid,
without the slight brush of a bird’s wings,
the squirrel’s dash across the limb,
or any breath of air to set things in motion.
Sculpted in place by a lack of wind,
stranded high above the earth’s reach
on branches and twigs with only
the chance of a steady, airborne course
the chance of a steady, airborne course
navigated by the tree’s thin arms.
Like a flotilla stranded aloft,
stagnant in stale, upper echelons,
haunted by memories of rugged twists and turns,
of hair-raising dips and roundabouts, and
of romantic two-steps on a dance floor.
Tranquility seems ominous and unnatural
for living things, left afloat in the heat of the day,
stalled with eyes cast towards the horizon
watching for a sudden storm as if clear skies
and calm seas breed the worst of beasts.
Rather than moments of imagination
carved out of wood and set upon a wave
to mark the days of an ancient being,
side-stepped and deserted, on its rushed,
final journey to a rocky shore.
©cmheuer, 2019
