i take my time to notice corn stalks before the harvest.
i momentarily sway with them in appreciation to the wind.
i try to thank them sincerely, recognizing that they live only to die.

growth

i stretch my arms at least seven miles high
in order to feel real air on my fingertips,
but not before i securely dig my feet into the mud.

these tress know what i mean, they, too, are old souls.
dancing with me at dusk and laughing

growing with, breathing in and spinning upon this earth

clapping our hands and praising the rain and
living our lives like we have for eons.