There is
a tree in my
garden. Its branches strained –
like me.
The day
I emerged, it
too sprung, a wily shoot
of green.
Our limbs
branched out
together, one mobile,
one still.
Soon it
mocked me, able
to stand alone, as I
stumbled.
Stiff grooves
appeared, which I
palmed, as it expanded
above me.
Up the
branches, I would
clamber, foot in the forks,
looking
up through
the leaves, and I’d
dream of walking on clouds
of white.
Until
it surpassed me,
burgeoning boughs blocking
the light.
Playing
in the roots, I’d
fantasise, of what was
above.
Small buds
appeared one morning
peeking at me through green.
white blooms
gave way
to green nubs, that
eventually turned into
gold orbs.
Now tall
enough to reach
I extend myself, pluck
one fruit,
then reach
for another. Greed
overtakes me, filling
my arms.
Each fruit
in my hand fills
me with ambition for
more, more.
Big and
golden, some firm,
some a bit tender, bit
paler
Leave a
few unworthy
alone. Variety makes my
stash grow.
Without
my notice, some
tumble out of my arms,
Slipping
through gaps,
fall to the ground.
Some neglected, rot in
my hold.
Outstretched,
compelled by my
nature, I keep aiming
higher.
Stick my
hands into the
depths of foliage for
new tastes.
I don’t
see the fallen
rotting at my feet, till
too late.
Can’t be
salvaged, so I
keep digging, searching to
replace.
Some fruit
spoil on the tree
itself, uneaten, each a
chance missed.
Hollow,
shrunk potential
land on the dirt, tainted,
unplucked.
Struggle
to keep what is
in grasp, as everything
shrivels.
I have
to release some
of my hoard to preserve
others.
This tree
will die someday,
it’s successor inside
my hoard
Within
juicy flesh, sour
pulp, lies seeds of future
promise.
I can
bury all the
seeds I please, water them
each day
Time will
tell which survive
my ficklety, and which
perish
So I
keep picking from
this tree’s bountiful limbs
and wait
