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.
It’s precarious, this tilt of earth.
I find balance
leaning up the mountain.
I steady myself against the sky.
I drop lower branches,
to find more light.
It leaves another eye every time.
My many eyes
looking right at You.