the tree

in my youth a tree was planted in the heart’s field. there it grew, watered and well-tended, bathed in light.

years passed. my soul’s winter came. the lackluster tree loses its leaves. it still lives but with broken branches and missing limbs. even now it reaches skyward, though a little skewed, almost remembering something it once knew.

“winter is beautiful too” say the birds that don’t go south. the tree is also a haven holding broken beauty too. the palest light still brings a new day no less profound than the lighter, easier ones before. 

what was is unsuitable for what is.

no matter the weather or the season, or the tree’s condition, the roots grow deeper in the present, not the past.

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