The trees have ears again, today
I am telling them about imagination.
The slender sprout at the foot
of his great oak mother listens
carefully as he should; he'll be
wider than a redwood cedar
before another crazy human
tries to have a conversation
with a twig. He asks me about
the definition of a dream, if
it's like the ghost of wind moving
through leaves without being caught
or shine of beetles poking through
soil when the moonlight reflects
off their jet black backs like
dark, wet jewels, then disappear.
These are tree dreams, I assure him.
Human dreams are more like sap
that drips down from a wound
in your bark or like winter when
you're hair falls out, you close
your eyes for awhile and remember
summer until summer
comes back. We talked
until the moon woke up;
the moon did not approve.