Pretty Moon

What emotional beings we are. No, no. Not everyone is. I always forget that.

Caught up in your nest of life... I mean I am caught in my nest of life. But Jesus, this is a huge tree. And look across the way--is that another tree?

Some people just don't feel it. Not like I do. They don't hear the whispers in the wind, They don't see--they don't even _look_ for the kindness in the eyes, not like I do.

That tree is beautiful. The bark is much darker and the trunk is skinnier, but just as supportive. Different feathers gather at the roots of it, and I don't feel as though the kinds are much different. You're a bird, I'm a bird.

I'm a girl, you're a boy. I'm a woman.. And you're a man? It doesn't matter what you are.

How special can we be if we are all so special?

And what if I don't want to be a bird or a lady And I want to be the tree or the grass or the pretty Moon?

As I spoke of her, her sigh passed through me and the early-fallen leaves rustled And refused to fly too far.

What would our naked souls do?