Our lives like trees in a field,
Plotted without yield
To the stones and dirt
That make it all work in rows.
Different it is, and different it was
From all the others it stands near
And rises above, so gracefully above
All other fields in sight.
Roots strong like steel,
They help us to deal
With all things that set us back;
They hold us up and down;
They support the rest of what we are and do.
Branches, needed for strength,
To always keep us at a length,
Ahead of our ambitious growth;
Always with a solemn oath
To extend us for others to help us;
Leaves, come and go and come,
As they please, with a quiet hum
Of pleasure, satisfaction, and delight;
In the moment making us feel right
But fading to a dull orange/brown at will.
Roots, branches, and leaves
Make up the nature of our form;
Each part helping us perceive
All the parts of each coming storm.
What they do in those moments
Shows what they do for us,
What they'll go through for us;
How they'll protect us,
Where they'll be for us,
When they'll leave us,
And why they won't;
How do your branches cleave?
And where do your leaves flee?
In the strongest of gales
Much of our tree needs nails
To keep it in place.
But never the roots,
Ever making the base
From which we grow our fruits
And grow our lives anew after the storm.
(even if a slightly new form)
Who makes up the roots of your tree?
Could they be the same roots as for me?
Shared roots run deepest, but you can't see
Because their always buried beneath you and me.
A level of tranquility
Under what we see,
What we fertilize is how we'll be
In the future...
Not a fucking axe party, and not firewood yet.