The Piano Forest

The piano forest
is where I want to grow old.
I haven’t touched its keys,
walked its pathways,
counted its leaves
in a while.

I hold my breath
when I look at green-filtered sunlight
on the mossy floors.
I am a plant, anxiously exchanging
the bright rays for oxygen–confusion.
I wish I was a plant, so I could leave behind
the anxiety and fade into the hills.

Taste the heat, it is
palpable, numbs my tongue.
If I were to be a plant, I’d be desert sage.
Let my wisdom turn the seedlings to trees.

I would be grown through the piano
in the forest, swarm myself onto the strings.
Imagine, the sun shining a light
upon my dead cells transmorphed
into the purple sun-shaped blossoms
that cover all the keys.

I haven’t played in a while,
but I like to imagine that when I do
again, the music will sound
like the mycelium when given a voice.