Stretch like a Tree

Where can a tree stretch but the ground into which it was planted?

The trunk is stale if not for those tendrils of root,

in weave and woe,

searching for nothing but water and

sustenance—seeking not progress, neither furthering

ambition nor intuition, but simply yearning for

life whether in abundance or providing minimum fulfillment.

Motivation here is stable, with an eye toward gradual maturity.

Somewhat of a choice was made by that

seedling to become a tower or a bush.

Budding leaves give luscious seeds, wanting to

fall upon the grass in an adventure

being carried out by some measure of distance or wind speed.

Waiting becomes a virtue.

Passion amid change is a necessary flexibility.

But above all, surrounds themselves in a thick

bark, the tree, to protect its delicate strands within:

a result not of determination or choice,

but evolution

out of the afflictions of life itself.

Oh, I tell you, make to stretch like a tree.