green

not what i haven't written
not what i have yet to write
not what someone might be holding
not what yet has come to light

i can metabolise projection
but do i know what i am feeling now?

where am i now?
i'm on a train
i saw sheep dotted sporadically to my left hand side -
dancing about like soap suds in a sea of green

i wonder what it would be like to chew on pasture instead of prediction -
would it feel wholer,
or simply more fibrous?

because as trees flit past me
i forget to look at the trees instead of past them
at what relays itself in the husk of the oak

as when i see trees as trees
my breathing slows
it's like i'm breathing green

i want to suckle on the sap housed in the core of me
my trunk cries out to be a trunk

i am not paper
crafted lumber
i am but green

as in my roots
i am calm
i am seen