Come, go, come, go.
Regular as the tide,
as the sun, as the moon, as the stars.
not a season,
not a regular,
not fixed in the universe.
with empty hands,
with full heart,
with agile mind in slowing body.
the me that changes
against the glory of days,
of season’s greetings and departures,
of life gone on
in neighboring houses.
Does anyone know?
Oh, to be like the tree.
Small then tall,
with no thought outside it all.
Branches spread wide,
Food and water come inside.
Times up, fold your wings, come home.
But Good and Evil, that devilish deed,
I’m destined to fend for a different kind of me.
One who sprouts chutes, but not without pruning,
One who grows tall, but not without tuning.
Looking strong, till I crack,
Feeling supple, till I snap.
Dare I reach at all? best remain small
Under cover, so no one will wonder,
what is she doing?
what has she done?
can she stand at another’s command?
Wait! I can stand.
I am taller,
I am stronger,
I am bolder,
I am broader.
The tree obeys the seasons for unknown reasons.
I abide the change, it’s more than an even exchange.
The new is older, but welcome somehow.
The creaks and cracks, just guides to know-how.
Such strangers to the younger set, yet
Familiar friends, I’ve never met.
Well, until now that I have seen
that what I don’t want to be is a tree.
easy just doesn’t become me.