A poem a day each April, for Katya the Poet's Dew Drop Inn |
In each cleanly neat textbook depiction all the branches are symmetry defined & every leaf the perfect representative called to order: Fibonacci spiral maths. I've got one such portrayal on my wall, its colors richly stitched in heavy fabric with three parading elephants beneath, trumpeting: Made in India! Free Trade! Two partridges sit on opposite branches in the balanced composition of plumage and poise. Around the edges, a pattern of stars, evenly spaced, arranges itself. My own life tree is messy, vining, entangled into nearby neighbors of varied shapes and lengths and ages. Some of my branches are cut short with puckered stumps and some are stretched in distress, acting out appeals. Some die infected by insect and some die by insecticide and some have branches off their branches little happy twigs and some have branches off their branches large misshapen stubs. Sometimes one comes crashing down or, struck by lightning, falls away to ash and sometimes one grows wonky, turning in mid-air seeking better paths to sun and some die trying never branching out at all but some, alive & grinning, bear delicious fruit in every season regardless of the latitude proper fertilization artist rendition or whether (or not) it rains. note ▼ |