Hello dear.

I see you,
a black fawn
of bits of wood
sitting atop a cabinet.

You don't do much.
Not like the trees.
They dance.
They stretch from the rocks
to that high mosaic of blue tiles
that you have the nerve to call a sky;
grinding their branches against
the scratch-resistant gloss.

What are we?
Are we relevant much, dear?
We could be as relevant as
hangnails
or paperclips.
Perhaps we're all just apples.
I think we're all just mud.
Thick.
Goopy.
Always stuck,
and getting unstuck,
and sticking; again.

But you are not an apple.
Nor are you mud.
You are just a black fawn,
made of bits of wood.
If only eyes could see.

Perhaps everyone is apples after all.