I found a place today
where the trees grow sideways over the water,
their top-heavy branches too full.
The mangled roots peek out through the concrete,
pleading for burial so they might breathe again.
Yet their leaves cradle the current—
an endless rocking back and forth—
as if to promise they’d somehow found peace.
I’ll dream I take you there,
and we sit where the trunk widens, making space for barely two.
But by next time, the season will have changed to a sticky one.
The breeze won’t ever smell the same.
Still, I’ll lie against this trunk for you,
and assess the rotated view.
I’ll pray the wind might blow the same way—
I’ll find presence in the standstill.