To Be a Tree

This poem,
plain and uninformed,
dreams of being a tree…
a friend of the wind but rooted,
buffeted but steady in its destiny.

Snow-flocked but not cold,
maybe a red bow for the season,
or maybe a cardinal caroling from its limbs,
mixing song with the piney scent
of balsam.

It really
doesn’t want to be a mountain
but it has a  certain envy  for mountains
standing stoic and immune
through harshest storm.

Clovers at its feet
would fit the dream, but
it doesn’t want to be them.
They last a short season
with a tenuous hold on memory.

This poem
is young and uncertain.
It knows what it wants to be
but the fear of blight and storm
reins it in.

Poems
are a lot like people.
Early on, they have to learn
one must shed their fear
to be a tree.