Happy As A Twig

sometimes I giggle in my sleep.

maybe my subconscious is trying

to tell me to pull head from chest,

and become the tree

the twister splintered, waking wood

from its statuette nature to shred

walls built by the hands of men.

and reduced in the aftermath

as suitable firewood,

the flames dancing, teasing sky,

softly lighting faces against

the carpet of fallen sun.

lovers are born of the glow,

catching eyes against the will of nature.

there is honor in the ash

and I giggle in my sleep.