The Tree

You have no heart, save wood, yet I am envious of thee, yonder tree.
You stand silently in your place as you were made to stand,
rooted in eternity.
There is a perfect form but your deviation from the norm
at the frivolous hand of the restless elements
has only enhanced your beauty; for you can do no wrong.
Though twisted, you are still a tree, as anyone can see.

I, embattled and embittered, bearing the scars of a ravaged spirit purposely beset
and dragging, as it were, the shackles of an unprofitable creativity,
tolerate the scornful looks of a population who have no sympathy for my pain,
who see no point to my inventions;
who deny me entry into their ‘sacred world of man’.
I curse that world, where hearts have nothing to do with roots
and where soil is something kept in a wallet.

I am fruit of a seed fallen into a vertical world,
trapped within the barren womb of a rocky fissure,
grasping at every hint of a wind that happens to tarry,
hoping to wrench myself from this meager existence
for the one chance that maybe, where the wind takes me,
there might be something better.
Maybe there I will fit in.

By Duane Huddleston

© 2004