Sometimes, briefly or as though I know what it means to dream, the leaves begin to shift each time I am near, as if the tree could fathom the soul of my name. There was time spent defining energy (the soul gliding amongst tissues and muscles and nerve endings as my mouth once did on the rim of a wine glass; purely intentional in the mark I left behind). A familiar tug of war, as death mechanically hovers over the ankles (and family corners the home of the soul), that one’s eyes, saturated in hunger, blink toward their rife separation. A dilemma which begins at a curve, disjointed by laws in physics and treehouses, till the breath begs to touch the calcium of carved bone.
I suppose my chatter toward energy is valued at the notion that it cannot be destroyed; therefore, the remnants of my smile could be altered, but not erased. So, my laugh should follow alongside the crooked shape of my eyes with each wink… (and I am finding it hard to believe in an afterlife, when your smile still exists). Maybe, it is the wind I mentioned previously?
Anyway, I can tell you that the light, which arguably reflected off the leaves at 5 PM last Tuesday, was proof enough.
Fuck the wind. Let’s share this fantasy together?
Please.
Three days ago, a surface-level cavity had to be filled, yet when they drilled away such brief remains of bone and decay, I wondered if you would see my smile clearly in the trees. Should we let this hope extend amongst the row of ants captivated by the rich, dense roots of this oak tree we buried our catastrophic fingerprints upon?
What should we do about the winter due to arrive soon?
Where will your smile go then?
The Olive Press Review 
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