Trees (Take Two)

The trees whispered stories to me when I was a child,

old stories with yellowing faces and feverish like spring,

their stories crawled through my dreams and swam over my eyes

until they ran through my blood like sap runs through trees.

My head cradled between two roots as thick as my arms,

I would respin each tale with a plastic pen.

Trees can only speak with wind running through their leaves,

I can only speak with ink running through my pen,

we share the sadness

of silence.