Trees of France

It’s always the swaying of the trees 

that brings me back to you,

Softly you’d sing to me another love song 

I hadn’t heard before. 

If only you would sing some more to a mind too busy to cease. 

I feel the weight of my attempts to 

reconcile the years I’ve been gone, 

and I wander these woods, knowing each step is further away from home;

This breeze brings me back to you.

Down terrains of Eastern Pines and Northern Oaks. 

They even sway the same, Weak kneed and tired. 

Catching steps to a jazz band leader. 

Gravitate to the upright beat keepers, 

Zero in on each Harmonic spin. 

Much like the trees of France. 

Unsure of his own ability to stand upon a ground stable 

From death and debts to our mother’s earth. 

Needing to get lost within her touch, 

Surrounded by sun and lust, 

Like an affair of the conscious. 

I feel the weight of my attempts to 

reconcile the years I’ve been gone, 

and I wander these woods, knowing each step is further away from home; 

This breeze brings me back to you