It was not until real hair began to grow, pushing through holes,
once the gaps in bark, now the windows of this organ called flesh,
that I began to miss with my thrumming heart-stone life as a tree.
Nothing can compare to the feel of a breeze through fresh leaf,
its veins taut with captured sunlight and the serrated edges
sensing directions skin cannot understand, or the exquisite release
when wind moves branches stuck between days like estranged lovers
whose hearts have twisted through bleak regret to brooding hate.
I found the screaming sea by accidental steps.
It was the sympathetic loneliness of the distant cliff
that drew me to stand at the world's edge. I felt the currents
buffet me until I became jealous of the common gulls
that allowed the thermals to lift them higher than thought.
The cliff was as close as I could come to returning home.
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