Tree* Poem by Morgan Michaels

Lovely tree
by a star's light
creaking gently
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.