Tree

The trunk's brothers
and its sisters
stretch out
over my head,
overhead,
clutching leaves
like offerings to the sky,
while underneath,
I lay,
a cross-hatched jewel;
not even the
Sun 
can reach me
with confidence.

Lean back
onto the trunk,
let the pages of my
book
envelope me.
I am constantly
in search of
a new page
a new sentence
a new feeling.

To anyone who's listening,
I have a message.
If faced with
a choice,
simply
walk away.
Keep going
until
you see a girl,
with her novel.
That's me.
But, listen,
the book is made 
out of 
the tree,
and it stands, still,
silently,
so tall, 
it has roots to keep it in place.
I'll wait my turn,
now,
quietly.
A girl,
and her book,
in the trees.