If we trace our history in trees,
I guess the sky would be our home –
skeleton limbs raised to moon’s cold stone.
Will they etch it on my tombstone
that I saw the world in t(h)rees?
– ocean, silence, home.
Will you build me a home
to climb to, a quiet corner stone
to hold my head, some small shade trees?
Of stones, I am unthrown; in trees, I’m home.
Still hanging in there at NaPoWriMo (day 7). Wanna play?