i think that we all grow up a bit crooked
that is to say
some of our roots are soggy from overwatering
some never watered enough
the scathing sunlight blocked by the kindness of our parents
looming above with tall, full branches
they divide the blue sky into pieces
such leisure it is to grow under the soothing of shade
such lament it is to grow under the absence of sun
the night turns cold and we forget it all
though for some, of course, it was never there
the lines of trees on a distant hill
divided into neat subsections of some suburban neighborhood
compartmentalized, boxed, it becomes easy to see
the lines of what should and should not be
each lawn and hedge trimmed tight along the sides
only the roots reach sly, sneaking underneath
to entwine with those we can never know
under divine eyes that litter the blue
how dazzling they are in their scrutiny, their benevolent shame
say, i know your name, and you
know nothing at all, but then there are those
propped up on old metal cage
by an abandoned barn with rusted hinges
out in the wild where the horses run free
they call them mustangs, children of wind,
unbound by anything, held by nothing, longing for some semblance
of structure, do they envy us, should they envy us
where comes the in-between
yet those in the in-between don’t look much better
with their thick, drooping leaves, holes chewed out by caterpillars
who have committed the sole crime of wanting to be beautiful
all of us ragged weeds, growing over each other in an attempt to be seen
and in our expeditions our footsteps overlap so much so
that if one took a snapshot from the space station
we’d all be walking the exact same line.
fin.