and the trees leaned toward me

and the trees on the hillside clung to each other by the tips of their branches and leaned toward me, waiting, watching; but maybe i'm just vain maybe that's the human in me / when i think trees are capable of love and loss because they're certainly capable of life; and when i see the bay for the first time in a while i want to jump because i know i will fly, i will waltz above the glossy water and dive with the little white birds that blend with the foam on the tops of the waves like the whipped cream i made that morning and the pancakes that sit in the freezer because no one ate them. and that's probably too much to say in one sentence but i don't care and neither does jack kerouac even though he didn't age well, and when the sky turns to pastel ombre like the strokes of my grandfather's paintbrush i can see emily dickinson's brooms sweeping in the night and the bonnets of children playing in eternity. at first i see the glimpses of golden like a rainbow droplet scattered by the sun and then the waves come, a wash of gilded air and gleaming glass, something to love for. the mountains blink humbly as they turn a deep purple and the windows reflect like old memories that have been polished and hung up on the wall. and i look at the photographs and paintings and sketches and i remember. and i swing dance by myself above the water to clairo and phoebe and hunt for pride flags on the sides of houses but i don't forget anything, and neither should you.