A shadow,
my only consistent friend,
becomes shorter with the rising sun,
a lie, this shrinkage,
as it also extends,
an outstretched darkness
that drains the dew-frosted leaves.

Sun-lit, I stretch,
a still green reaching,
for the very light
that sears my edges brown.

A dryness quenched by the storm
that comes to tear me from the soil.

This rooted life,
a paradox of immobility and wild growth,
of receiving what consumes my being,
carbon’s gentle touch,
and returning the very breath
that enables the robin to sing.

They say I am plain,
a fixed point in a turning world.
But in my bark and flower,
quiet battles are fought,
a contradiction to living,
a paradox to being.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.