What Are You Trying to Say?

You press against my back. 

You whisper in my ear. 

You move through my hair. 

You rattle the tin roof above me. 

You fling the tree branches as you please. 

And you make a fallen cigarette dance. 

I feel you under my arms, 

and I think to fly. 

It is you who put that thought in my head,

and now you are loud, 

speaking through the trees.

With great force you upheave the leaves and the dirt. 

What are you trying to say? 

I close my eyes and hold my journal

as you lift its pages.

I’m listening. I’m feeling. 

Do you want me to be as the grass,

humble and quiet? 

Do you want me to be as the hawk,

high above the valley? 

Do you want me to be as the tin roof,

that yelps and cries against your might, 

but remains sturdy? 

What is it you want? 

You bring a little girl’s voice to me from afar.

Is it parenthood you preach? 

Love? Responsibility? Connection? Humanity? 

You’re quiet now. 

What do you want to know? My thoughts? 

I will tell them to you:

I am confused.

I feel lost. 

I wonder about my purpose. 

I thi– 

Your hands lightly sway the branches. 

What is it? 

Is it the green leaves you want me to see?

I see the light entering their bodies;

I know they create sweet nectar and clean air. 

I see the yellow leaves too. 

In a few months they will all change color, 

then you will send them to the ground.

Life will leave them, but they will still provide life.

And in time, the leaves will return to the barren branches,

as if they never left. 

Am I like the leaves?

Please, tell me, I’m listening.