When I was the forest,
I thought I’d be young forever.
It was easy to undulate
when the breeze flirted by,
feeling lovely and large.
There is nothing more beautiful
than green leaves in the spring
and I was drunk with power.
But all things end,
nothing is as it seems,
and now that I am a desert boulder,
rough and grayed with no softness inside,
I have nothing to hold onto
except this graffiti skin
and the bright sun in my eyes.