When I’m a tree
I will stand for a thousand years.
I will not question why I sprouted
in the warmth of the sun,
I will not question the snow
I want to look up to my life,
even in its mundane unfolding.
I want to look up to the cleanliness and beauty
of a million little things never noticed
Fingers tapping on the table, on the forehead, on the window,
Shuffling papers thin as tinfoil, pouring corn flakes, wiping mirrors.
Fingers stretching wrinkled cotton, brushing dust specks, creasing cardstock