I want to dance with the trees

I want to dance with the trees, so I dance down to the forest.

The trees hide themselves from me with their twisting arms, they whisper and gossip about the dancing leaves, cackling as the dots of emerald move freely across the broken ground, hurt from the leaves' performance.

So I tip-toe. The sun pokes its nose through the seas of leaves,

Tinting them in a golden glow to watch them dance.

I want to dance with the trees, but I’m jealous of her long strong wings and how they can carry whole cities of leaves and animals.

But more than that I’m jealous of her eccentric, resilient and ancient twisting roots, the kind of moss along her jagged skin, her grass admirers that bow down to her and her gorgeous face as if she were a model with her slender frame.

I want to dance with the trees, but they don’t want to dance with me.

I want to sway in the smooth wind and feel their silky leaves.

I want to tango with the emerald gems along their branches and waltz with the fields of dandelions that surround them.

But they don’t want to break free of the ground and push their roots through the heartbroken surface of the forest floor, or twist their bumpy wings through the air. 

And feel the freedom of an eagle soaring through the sky.

They’re too stubborn, too sturdy.

So, I just lay there, grass stuck between my toes,

Resting my head on the tree’s back, listening for something,

A smooth whistle

Or maybe a sharp beat

Anything to make the trees dance with me.