Filed under: poetry | Tags: life, moving, nature, roots, stagnation, still, trees, writing
You once told me that I should uproot myself
to keep growing. To stay is stagnation.
But I’d rather be a tree
than a stressed house plant,
constantly searching for a larger pot.
While you mock me for my immobility,
my roots demolish the hard ground around me.
There is always something new
if you probe far enough, deep enough.
I will have lived in less exotic soils,
but we will see who grows taller.
You can gaze out the window,
longing for your next transplant.
I will stay. I will spread.
Young plants will sprout in soil I have loosened.
Generations of wildlife will use my twigs
to build homes within the shelter of my branches.
I may stay, but I am not still.
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