by a star's light
like a middle mast
your sails out flung, only bluish;
rooted as you are,
travelling in place and going nowhere,
you weave a nest for any bird.
Beware, the woodsman's
real and ruthless blade.
Strokes ring out, quiver off,
and shake the chandelier.
Next, you are.
It isn't that one's lot improves-
it generally doesn't,
or does so rarely;
At best, it stays the same.
All things being equal,
we just equilibrate-
redefine and with time
and less or more effort,
accept and move on.
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Comments about this poem (Tree* by Morgan Michaels )
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