The Tree

The Tree


A tree stands alone, waiting.

He cannot compare to the other trees.
They surround him, wide and tall, cover him in shadow.
Frozen in a bow, he's crippled, like an old man
In a misshapen arch, bent, his back is broken.

His bark is deeply twisted, gnarled, like worn fingers.
His crooked branches hover above the ground, sideways and bare.
His deadened boughs are a chaotic maze, going no where.
He stretches out for solace, acceptance, finds no one, catches air.

No birds house in his lofty rafters, to sing of his eternal beauty,
No squirrels to play at his disheveled roots.
They won't find food there, he's empty.

A patch of light escapes the clouds, its ray rests on his shoulders.

He dreams about the tree he could have been.
A behemoth guarding the sky, an extension of
the Earth itself, mighty and strong.
All other trees would cower and scrape beneath his feet.

The light and its warmth fades. Darkness takes hold.

The snapping of his back is deafening. The tree groans as he falls, free,
crunching the leaves underneath him. His deformed trunk faces the night sky,
finally erect.

Out of the stillness, flying fast, the wind comes to the forgotten tree.
It embraces him, cools him, surrounds him in its whispers.
The wind makes his roughness smooth.

A tree stood alone, waiting.