The Tree

Often I've done what I would consider "lucid writing." Although the terminology is somewhat of a misnomer, I've heard it much to describe work done while being "half out of it."

 Once I walked across a golden field, crying. Down a hill and over a crest. Needing a rest yet never stopping, for my destination lay just ahead.
I found my tree, a drooping maple. It's leaves wilted. It's bark crumbled. I laid my head upon a tendriled pillow.

I said to him "Good Day Mr. Tree
Am I silly
Talking to you
I don't expect an answer from thee"

"I see your scars from years now gone by
Blackened skin
Carved initials
Still your branches reach out to the sky"

"Perservering! Trying! Though you fade
Your branches
Dropping away
You stand mighty through pain years past made"

     I laughed, though it was not real. I felt my cheeks blush at my improvisational rhyme though no person was within miles to hear me. I stared up at the blue sky and felt the warmth of the sun. My friend The Butterfly had arrived, and watched me intently from a distance. He slowed tilted his irridescent wings and brought them back up, as though to acknowledge that I was here. 

     The butterfly raised from his perch and fluttered lazily towards me, landing on my chest. 

     I felt a tear roll down my cheek.

     I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of the fields and the woods, and sighed a deep breath. I felt a tickle across my face. I opened my eyes and felt where the sensation had been. It was not wet from the tear that I cried. Turning my head, I saw a leaf. The sun glistened through the bead of sadness the tree had brushed from my face, and I closed my eyes again and smiled.