communing with the trees

There is history in everything that surrounds me.
But here, I have none.
I prefer the present—
moments drowned in nature.

A swift breeze, water moving over rock,
lazy locusts and croaking frogs.
If I listen closely, the trees begin to whisper.
Softly, sweetly, they urge me
to leave my hurried life
and live among them.

Birdsong scolds me
for reflecting on my city life,
for allowing it to crowd my mind
in such an open space.

Cities do not give humans room to move freely
any more than thoughts of cities
leave the mind room to think.

I push the thoughts away again.

Instead, I want to enter this space with my body—
dip my hands deep in the earth
and play among the roots.
I want to fold into the trees
and trade skin for skin.

And lastly, I wish to relinquish all that I am,
melt into the water,
and drift away.