Poem: On reflection

[ysobel]

Sometimes I wonder if ever the trees
Find themselves burdened with thoughts such as these:

"I am old, I am crooked and gnarled and squat
And all that I wish I could be, I am not.

Not tall like the redwoods that reach towards the sky
Nor bendy like aspen that shimmer and sigh.

My bark is uneven, not glossy and sleek;
My branches, when wind-stirred, don't whisper but creak.

My leaves have not come yet, my branches are bare,
Though warm is the weather and spring in the air.

The birds do not choose me, for perch or for nests;
The squirrels run elsewhere, as other trees' guests

I am old, I am ugly, I fail as tree
And yet there is not a thing else I could be."

...Do trees ever ponder on what could have been
Or what they should do, or how they can "win"?

Or do they just live and then die in due course,
Unfettered by fear or by guilt or remorse,

With roots to keep grounded, connected with earth,
That keep them from doubting about their own worth,

And leaves to leap skyward, aloft in the breeze,
To drink in the sun’s warmth and keep them at ease;

And never to fear about unused potential,
But simply to concentrate on the essentials

Of dreaming in winter, re-waking in spring,
Without undue worries of what time will bring.

Do trees ever worry? If not, then my plea
Is that someday I may be reborn as a tree.