The Trees

J. Scott Smith

The tree struggled with its roots
To stand firm in shifting ground
To thrive in a soil so cursed
No worse, but better be found

In days of winds but a gust
Both branches and trunk would bend
And shallow roots barely held
Against what was barely a wind

Spread wide, roots, don't burrow deep
Said the tree, spread here, spread there
And when the wind comes I'll stand
Held fast by roots everywhere

Came the wind, not mild, not strong
And bore firm against the tree
And bent it low toward the ground
As its scattered roots pulled free

When the wind had blown away
The tree tried its plan again
Spread even more roots around
Trying still what failed back then

You surely have guessed by now
When gripped by another storm
The tree swayed and was bowed low
An outcome now come the norm

The tree cried and lowly moaned
Whenever the wind would blow
And would curse the ground and roots
That yielded the tree to bow

Soon a sapling had arrived
A seed fallen near the tree
Had sprouted close by and then
Was told: You should be like me!

Now, dare look, what do you see
As winds buffet to and fro
But a sad sight, no surprise
Old tree, young tree, both bent low