On Being a Tree

We may never truly know
With our constant need to control
What it’s like to be a tree
With sinking roots and budding leaves.
Every inch completely prone
To every thunderbolt that’s thrown,
Every flood and every drought
Without a means of getting out.
Every creature passing through
Can tear its life from whence it grew
And leave its offspring in the dirt.
We may never know the bitter hurt
Expressed through sweetest seeping sap
From every point where branches snap.
Is this some sort of knowing trust
Or a constant fear that can’t adjust
To nature’s sway?
It would seem this way.
We may never truly know
Until our leaves have all let go.

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Filed under poem, poetry

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