Light can spread and thicken.

Light can spread and thicken on the branches of green and pink buds. Hungry tulips open and edge upwards and reach towards the falling blossoms which float to lay weightless upon the trickling stream. The open twitter of birds dreams through the silence of the forest but I lay, out of place, in the shadows. My arms and neck fit the grooves of the fallen log only I poke its tender bark and tear it off whenever I move. I fit. Soft soil is torn in the grasp of my hands on the grass which sways and lulls in its own green glow. I can only let the light play with my eyes as it flickers through the leaves and licks the thick trunks around me. There is a gap. An emptiness which needs filled as the rolling tickle of water and birdsong teases my ears. If only there was a stump for me to wish were grown; to nervously touch and feel the grooves with my fingertips and wish, beg to be grown. An enchanting spurt of growth to treasure in memory instead of treasured surroundings. Nothing. No stump to lose but the blossoms tickle and rub their pink into my wet and fearful cheeks.