Tree* - Poem by Morgan Michaels
by a star's light
like a middle mast
your sails out flung, only bluish;
rooted you are,
travelling, travelling, going nowhere,
you weave a nest for any bird.
Beware, the woodsman's
blade is keen
the strokes ring out, echo off,
shaking our indoor chandeliers.
The next, you are.
It's not that one's lot improves-
it generally doesn't,
or does so rarely;
At best, it stays the same.
Things being equal,
we just equilibrate-
redefine and with time
and less or more effort,
accept all and move on.
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