Some days, trees are not trees
and I am not me.
I am a misplaced thing-
a small pile of sand on the second shelf of the china cabinet
next to a stack of teacups;
a single goosebump upon the arm of a woman sunbathing;
a nit on a bald man’s head.
I am contrary to the order of things-
a vortex running counter to its designated direction-
and everything pulled into my universe becomes contrary too.
Mothers tell bedtime stories about the souls’ of the damned.
The whispering breeze becomes the discordant notes of the organ master.
Day becomes night
and trees become demons.
On anxious days
everything stands in defiance of God
and fear prevails.