My leaves dance and tease the wind
My limbs shelter the weary birds
I stand tall against the storm
My roots tap the earth’s bosom –
but only in my dreams where I can be
a tree that need not dream being a tree.
In the dark of night, I turn to the stars and cry
for each spark of hope that dies
with each pruning by a loving hand
to make me the perfect specimen
crowning the miniature of the habitat
that nature gave my big counterparts.
Perhaps, I am wrong
to ache for dreams that cannot be
to find myself in creatures
that I was not meant to be.
Self-pity had me blind
to the beauty, I’ve been told, I possess.
Could I see through your eyes
that I may look at myself with kindness?