eavesdroppers on a wooden heart

I don't play the guitar.  But today with a pulse of music around me so strong it felt solid, 
and with my hand on the guitar's hollow body of wood, 
I felt its lungs beat In and Out, Up and Down. 
I was like the doctor with his tools eavesdropping on your heart.  The creature danced in my arms, the vibrations tingled my fingers, my palm, my chest.  A surge of stray thought swept me away and for a moment I was transported: the music flooded around me still, and the wood still fed the rhythm, but in the place of the patient confined to the bed was a forest, an expanse of dark Lincoln green, of hazy shadows and moonlight and growing sticks with masses of shadowed hair of lime and grey and EVERGREEN.  My arms around a growing giant lulled me to life, as my heart rhythm grew and sang and burst within me in song.  The tree I embraced was beating and humming and the vibrations through the timber filled my skin and torched my soul: The tree was dancing.  
     My tree is dancing and pulsing and ALIVE, and I am in it. 

Someday,
I will dance with the trees.
I will feel the trees dance.
I will feel their echo of the sounds in the air, and I will beat with their pulse, my ear to their songs and our heart pressed together.

For now, I can have patients.  I'll rest my hands to their hearts and pry in to the rhythm of these smaller creatures. And I'll cling to those moments that remind me of my dance, and of the tree I became and of the glory that filled the air and my arms and that filled my nostrils with its sweet, sweet evergreen breath.

And as always, Everett Mills will wait a little longer and add another craving to the list of dreams.

And really, I'll be looking for my dance with the trees.

Everett Mills.