communing with the trees

There is history in everything that surrounds me.
But here, I have none.

I prefer the present,
moments surrendered to nature.

A sudden breeze,
water wandering over stone,
the lazy hum of locusts,
the low conversation of frogs.

If I listen closely,
the trees begin to whisper.
Softly, sweetly, they beckon me
to abandon my hurried life
and live among them.

Birdsong scolds me
for bringing the city here,
for allowing its noise to fill my mind
in a place so full of silence.

Cities leave little room for us to wander,
just as thoughts of cities
leave little room for us to wonder.

I push those thoughts away again.

I want to know this place
not merely with my eyes,
but with my body.

To sink my hands deep into the earth,
to trace the tangled roots beneath me,
to fold myself into the trees
and trade skin for skin.

And when there is nothing left
of the life I carried here,
I want to surrender what remains.

To melt into the water,
to become part of its passing,
and drift away.