“Say cheese,” she said, even though she knew I wouldn’t.
“Smile, for me,” she urged, even though she knew I couldn’t.
There’s something mysterious about photos in a forest
because if you’re lost among the trees, you can’t be a tourist
because those drones stay in the cities, among money and parks;
they couldn’t possibly understand, underestimate, the power of the barks.
They talk to me, is what I have to say, to tell a story,
but don’t you go and suddenly feel sorry,
because you don’t know me
I don’t think you want to.
So even though she wanted to to smile then,
she knew that it was never going to happen.
Because the trees,
they like to scream,
they like to wave their leaves
until you leave.
Have you ever noticed how the branches
seem to take all their chances
and reach out beyond what it looks like they can,
but it always seems like they have a plan?
Have you ever noticed how
the branches of trees will be a sheaf
of paper, and how the branches
reach out and look like a leaf?
It’s strange to me
that all we see
is from one to two
and two to three,
because there’s so much more between the numbers
than simply just the lumber
and they want you to know that, too.
At some point, perhaps you could stop and see
the forest for all of the trees,
but until then, they will just scream to me,
and me alone,
until I’ve gone home,
like a true tourist.
So “Cheese,” she said, and cheese she meant,
when she wanted to take that picture,
and all did she know that it was the trees
that made my smile flicker.