Words come quaking

like aspen leaves 

from my lips

in a language I do not recognize,

trembling with each small invisible breath.

Silver and green syllables 

twirl on their paper thin petioles, 

catching every zephyr you send. 

These are my little offerings.

 

I’m reeling,  

It’s precarious, this tilt of earth.

I find balance 

leaning up the mountain.

I steady myself against the sky.

I drop lower branches, 

stripping, lightening

to find more light.

It leaves another eye every time.

My many eyes 

keep gazing, 

looking right at You.