The Trees Lament
The roots do not grow alone.
They twist in the dark,
searching for each other,
feeding off the same dirt,
the same rain-soaked silence like we do.
Quiet and craving.
The trunk is not proud because it stands tall.
It is proud because it holds the weight.
Cracked and groaning under years of storms.
It never breaks, because it knows the branches are watching.
The branches stretch in different directions.
Always reaching.
Never touching.
Jealous of the light that only one gets at a time.
When one leaf gets the sun, the others wilt in the shadows.
What is the point of blooming if your siblings are starving?
I do not want to be the highest leaf if you are trembling in the wind beneath me.
I do not want to be the one with fruit if your bark is splitting.
I am because we are.
I live because we all do.
If one of us falls, we all rot a little.
If only one of us gets out,
gets picked,
gets seen,
it is not Joy.
It is a wound.
The whole tree aches for the branches that snapped.
Therefore, I will stay here.
Arms wide.
Catching storms for you.
I would rather weather it all together than bloom alone
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