To Write Again

How I would love to talk to you of sunlight
as yellow paint dripping down
a skyblue canvas.
I want
to tap into the image of maples and oaks
stretching out their leaves in my favorite yoga asana
breathing our waste in deeply,
breathing out life as we know it
and quietly making dryads of us all.
I think we would call that the pranayama of trees.
They are lovely thoughts,
all of these things,
but I don’t know what the point is
other than to write something,
anything, please, when did this become hard,
that sounds like poetry.