“Write about me,” she says, a small,
unimportant breeze blowing through
her leaves and branches. I answer
by smiling, and sighing, and sitting
back against her, her large trunk
warm by some tiny pinpoints of
sunlight, just the ones that were able
to get through her canopy.
“Okay,” I reply, and I draw
my pencil and notebook, both
made from some distant relative,
of hers, I’m sure.