Today’s prompt reminds me of a poem about trees and poems.
Trees by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
Alas, I did not make myself. My mom, dad, and nature did. Or, if you like to call it that, God. Or maybe they worked together. Hard to say.
If I were a tree, sometimes, I would be like these trees:
Sometimes I rise straight and strong to the sky, surrounded by others like me where I feel like I fit in, sheltered and providing shelter.
Other times, I’m more like this tree:
Dormant, set apart from those I perceive as like me, standing watch over activity that passes by me – almost near enough to touch – but does not include me.
In reality, I am probably too much of a tourist to be a tree. Trees are rooted to one spot, with solid nourishing roots that extend at least as far beneath the surface as the branches extend to the heavens, patiently waiting and witnessing all the seasons with the appropriate response to the conditions. I tend to want to experience things all at once, whether or not I am ready, and don’t usually like being stuck in one place, even if it is a place that I love. There is so much to experience as a human that I never regret not being a tree.