You are not a pretty thing.
Gangly, misshapen, with
twisted trunk and arms akimbo,
you have no inherent grace, no hidden mystery,
no subtle charm whatsoever.
Here, amid the glory of God's fauna,
your random tips poke the morning
like a mutant starfish wedged atop a gutless tree.
In this spring-breezed, sun-kissed clearing,
your branches flail like the arms of a toddler:
Hey! Look at me! Look at me!
Around you, stately firs and bobbling jonquils
stretch, embarrassed, toward the sky;
vines and ivy tendrils curl away.
Across the path, your elder pines stand rigid,
fresh lime needles fluttering, chastely,
like the fans of a thousand geishas.
You are not one of them,
did not have some ecologically-minded soul
plant a seedling version of yourself in
carefully choreographed reforestation.
No, you are rogue—an uninvited,
unexpected spawn of Mother Nature,
set out to stake your claim in the name
of serendipity and survival of the fittest.


© by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer.
Used with the author's permission.