the hill's fierce bidding,
i traded for a branch's
simple,
certain sway.
they trade hands for power.
i keep both to feel the rain.
a richer currency.
their feast of the brave
requires a constant enemy.
my hunger is quiet.

no myth needed here.
the sun explains everything
without a single word.
i store no old wounds
or future anxieties.
the bark holds me now.
their synchronicity
is a desperate,
mirrored dance.
i move with the wind.

they speak of great wealth,
a hoard of shimmering nothing.
i own this sunlight.
they fear the quiet,
the space between their stories.
i build my home there.
their market has no
column for this balance,
the weight of letting go.

the ultimate trade,
their transgressive,
heavy sword
for my empty hands.
they are the island.
i am the surrounding deep,
and i am enough.
i am that monkey
who does not need an island.
a tree is enough.
the final line
is not an end,
but a breath.
a leaf on a tree.