The tree is beautiful
The way it sprouts from the earth,
bound for paradise.
The way it flaunts its identity
reaching out in every direction,
expressing its individuality from others of its kind
in the way its branches bend, the way the leaves sit between the sun and the sitter.
The harsh winds of late autmn will soon tear
the leaves from their branches, leaving it bare,
stripped of the ego, only to be reborn.
I can trace the grooves along its trunk,
they are in language i cant quite understand,
each one telling a different story,
a new year, a new set of leaves, a new personality.
To the bug below these ridges are vertical valleys,
a rainfall makes the tree a treacherous climb.
To the bird the tree is a home, or a place of rest,
a place where it withdraws its wings or settles in a nest.
To the squirrel the tree is many things, a passage being one,
from one branch to another, and one tree to the next,
from tree to roof and down again on the prowl for their next nut.
To some the tree is an heirloom,
it grew from the earth when your grandmother was born,
and to your grandchild it may mark the playing grounds.
To some the tree adds property value,
and they are sorrowly mistaken,
if all could see what i can see,
youd see trees as breathtaking.