I think, if I could live as long as they do,
Maybe life wouldn’t be so mysterious
Or maybe I would simply accept the mystery
And not question it.
Maybe I would be braver
With my head in the clouds,
If I knew my roots were deep as heartbeats.
Maybe I would find myself beautiful
With my russet bark, the color of autumn,
And my proud, regal bearing.
Instead, I walk below them,
Fragile against them, my bones and skin glass.
The wisdom beneath my fingers,
Of things known and unknown,
All the nameless years,
Stretched up and away from me into the sky.