I understand trees.
Not like a botanist.
Like a woodland dweller.
A hermit among them.
Humanity is the forest exactly.
I mean just exactly.
Entangled with age,
Individuals with muddled roots.
Some exposed by time,
Some diving narrowly down
To hide in buried dark.
And our fallen ends never recompose.
No upward flurry of gathering,
Autumn in reverse.
I would never go back.
Any root pruned would kill a branch,
Maim the crown.
And errors produce the rarest grain,
Smart carvers hunt them with lust.
I have grown around my pain.
I will never go back.
I will rise a hundred years and
Fall over with the right wind.
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