Not meant for the easy way
How easy to be a tree.
Seed and sprout,
Green and grow,
Bloom and leaf and shed, repeat.
Reach, reach for the sun.
Yawn, yawn, day is done.
Oh, to be like the tree.
Small then tall,
with no thought outside it all.
Branches spread wide,
Food and water come inside.
Times up, fold your wings, come home.
But Good and Evil, that devilish deed,
I’m destined to fend for a different kind of me.
One who sprouts chutes, but not without pruning,
One who grows tall, but not without tuning.
Looking strong, till I crack,
Feeling supple, till I snap.
Dare I reach at all? best remain small
Under cover, so no one will wonder,
what is she doing?
what has she done?
can she stand at another’s command?
Wait! I can stand.
I am taller,
I am stronger,
I am bolder,
I am broader.
The tree obeys the seasons for unknown reasons.
I abide the change, it’s more than an even exchange.
The new is older, but welcome somehow.
The creaks and cracks, just guides to know-how.
Such strangers to the younger set, yet
Familiar friends, I’ve never met.
Well, until now that I have seen
that what I don’t want to be is a tree.
easy just doesn’t become me.
Posted on May 2, 2015, in art, Life, poetry and tagged Aging, ambition, nature, Peace, seasons. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.
Reblogged this on BOOMERBEAT – FRISCO DAYS.