How can a tree so much bigger than me but blow so free in the wind?
And when do I get my star, having traveled so far, what more must I do to deserve it?
I have talents thus, my frustration must, be apparent whenever I seed.
And now, left cold, in the shadow of this oak, I lay barren without my leaves.
Whatever is to be said for never being alone must come from some younger me,
For I stand bent in the middle of this wood, skewed yearning for a glimpse of that star
Some days she comes, mostly she doesn’t, but then this must be the life of a tree.
Smaller, wanderer, mentally prophetic…no longer will I go without light,
Down with this oak and its bright shiny star, his comfort is not longer my plight.
Down with this oak, it’s gotten too tall, and will surely fall under the weight of its lumber.
But first I must die, for our roots are intertwined, like Mobius and his unending line
Then so be it to dust, my lumber first, I will go gracefully and calmly with the wind
A traveler, a wanderer, and mentally prophetic I will seed this time on high
As high as I wish, and all I shall I take, all I will bring is this star,
And of that oak, my one and only, who knows, who knows, who’s asking?