we have to keep the trees asleep because what if everything moved green-lizard fast. i feel my heart darting beneath every rock it can find. we are so unprepared. my shoes are coming apart. i am far-sighted & at a distance trees always look like they're linking arms. they have been sleeping but that doesn't mean a wrong sound couldn't wake them up & then we'd have all kinds of new small talk. i rehearse almost all conversations & i try to imagine their outcomes. make lists of "if they say this, i'll." would the trees want houses? i walk ten blocks to the park just to press my hand to one of my favorite trees. thick trunk. forked at the neck. a shoe hands from one of her arms. i don't have a plan for what i would say if suddenly she spoke back. this alarms me. there should always be a plan. maybe, "did you have any dream?" lately my dreams have been too all-knowing. laying down, i always get the sensation of falling. as if i'm the newly oranged leaf & soon i'll be a part of autumn's quilt. is a leaf like a eyelash or a child to the tree. i guess this is conversation. i don't want her to wake up though. if i were beautiful & still & didn't need fingers i would want to stay like that. i wonder if it's too late to get in on what they have. give me each season like a haircut. my skin is as dry as bark. a bird comes to nest even though it's not even close to spring. i am eager & afraid of every merri-go-round. what will we do with all their roaming? how do we even manage our own? i sometimes tie myself to the radiator to ensure i don't wander too far off in a fit of elsewheres. before leaving i tell the tree, "you can sleep at my house if you wake up." simultaneously i'm thinking "no. i don't have any room." this is how we have to offer so much of our love. if we must. if we must. i want to give the way apples fall if not plucked. swelling globes of my sugar. does anyone at all live like that?