If the breeze could speak, I wonder if it would tell us where it’s come from.
Tell us about the butterflies that have surfed on it, or the parachuting spiders waiting to paint the trees with silk.
How many bodies it’s brought together, channeling life from flower to flower,
catching dreams and sending them by sky post to Mary Poppins.
Would it tell us about the cut trees it’s seen, the hunters who have no hunger to warrant hunting, the water that was ice and the islands not made of rock or soil, but plastic?
Maybe it already is speaking and we just haven’t learnt how to listen.
Treeshallow Musings 