"An orange, I think. 

I would like to eat the world as though it were a gigantic orange,

Not nicely, in sections, either,

 Truthfully, with juice dripping."

Silence.

Leaning my head against the bark, the oak who has lived three of my lifetimes. "Can you hear me?"

Perhaps a century of too many confidences has made it deaf.

 "I said I want my joy to be a scandal. 

I want days light with laughter and nights heavy with wine.  

And dancing, obviously, 

What's the point without dancing?"

Silence.

Does it even know how to dance? 

A tilt of the uppermost branches in the wind suggests it might.

"I want people to look at me and say, after they have judged me behind their hands,

She is really living!"

Silence.

A different  texture this time. Warm, grandfather silence.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Quiet, root-deep.

"What have you got to say for yourself?"

The roots do not speak, 

They draw up as they wish,

The branches spread themselves wide without asking permission.

My confidant knows only one word, 

All-purpose, used for storms and newly-built nests and blight and a fresh crown,

Whispered now as the leaves are brushed by passing fingers,

"Yes."