When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute and it is longer than any hour. That's relativity. — Albert Einstein

You counseled me
to look down
at my own stable trunk
rooted in solid earth,
not up at branches
that sway any which direction
to a master made of wind.
Yet, what of the Earth?

It moves
tectonically
rippling of magma,
as hot
as any desire.

A tree
grows from the inside:
forges
thousand year rings
which for the tree may be
like sitting on a hot stove
or spending time
with a pretty girl.

You persuaded me
time is not linear,
it dwells in my head.
I take this lesson home
and calculate:
in some mathematical
universe
an Earth is moving, wildly confused,
while the branches are stone still,
caught
in a drama of relativity.