She picked up her shoes and sat next to a tree
that looked like your fingers in a way.
Wrote a list of to do’s and checked off every last one of ‘em.
Oh, how she changed your point of view.
Now you set aside technicalities,
find your rhythm in the grooves of tree trunks, you
compare yourself to clouds.
Your mirrored opinions are
reflections of your insides, all jumbled up and exposed.
Whatever happened to
coffee and newspapers
Sunday mornings
everything in accordance with inward breaths?
Whatever happened.