I'm Fine

The half-scorched aspen's applause
For the evening breezes, like the taffeta
Rustling of angels shuffling in
A scry-stone's stone pin seems startling
And wrong to a human used to distrusting
His own anthropomorphic whims
But not above guessing his senses
Know the surest way into the world.

And what if his first, foolish instincts
Were the closer to correct? The tree,
Lonely clone with no siblings left it,
Really was trying to be reassuring.
I'm fine, it shushed through its leaves,
I'm good at being
Fine, in fact
It's what I'm best at.