Transcendentalism always tries
to break the news gently, running
her fingers through my hair.
It's actually a pain in the ass.
I sing good morning to
the hummingbird. I finally
get to see her perch, still,
resting. She matches the trees.
I match the trees too today,
seduced by chance encounters
and indirect communication. Each leaf
is a note for the sky, a love letter.
Dancing is not my favorite; that's where
the wind and I disagree. He doesn't want
a rumor, just an opportunity. I cannot
be persuaded to trust just anyone.
Transcendentalism loves to exploit
the parenthetical aside. When I'm
invisible, I can't use your figure
of speech, love letters be damned.
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