I always admire trees—
Perhaps even envy them.
They fall, yet rise again,
over and over.
We don’t.
There is so much to learn from them,
Their origin
Their kinds
Their needs
Their strength
But I only watch from a distance.
Not knowing their art.
Unaware of their facts.
What does it mean to be an ideal tree?
Tall, branches wide,
Leaves abundant,
Dressed in colours,
as if happiness were its crown.
But lately,
I have come to love the ones stripped bare—
no leaves, no colours,
only dry branches exposed.
They stand naked,
bones revealed,
nothing hidden.
And in their starkness,
you can almost see
the promise of how they might grow again.
They no longer serve the purpose
we expect of a tree,
and yet—
they are still beautiful.
I know you want to be with
someone who is in bloom.
Who will comfort you,
Like the shade in the summer.
Who will say just the right words
Like the ripeness of the season.
Yes, we wait for the harvest-
But, haven’t you witnessed only one season?
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