woodheart

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.