Don't Move Like the Trees

You don't feel it. You're inside now.
As I walk away, this breeze
wrapped tight around my neck like a scarf,
playing with my hair,
kissing my cheeks, licking my ears,
is reaching for my inner heat.

But the trees are still.
They don't feel it either.
Do they have an inner heat?
They have a secret:
It's not too cold standing still.

The breeze is artificial, just
the wind rubbing hard against skin
as I pace through its solidity.
It's reaching for my inner heat.

I admit it's fiction.
(Not the cold or the feeling of a breeze or my inner heat).
I admit to dressing up a mechanical anthropomorphism as a poetic device,
but only because I feel guilty.

I'd tell you why I did it, too, but
you don't feel it; you're inside now

I'll tell you why I did it if
you stop. Moving like the breeze
wrapped tight around my neck like a scarf
playing with my hair
kissing my cheeks licking my ear
reaching you I'd tell