a tree in scrubland

we dance like barley chaff, blown around by the wind,
like a candy wrapper in central park, gusts hastened
by the fruit of our industriousness, towering over us,
like dust over arid dirt, scrub in the wasteland,
land too hard to take in water, so nourishment that comes,
feels like a salty flood.

we, who believe in our self.

while we float, often we yearn for water, for
roots to connect us with the world. Yet taking root
needs patience, resistance, faith that rain will come,
belief in the worth of dirt, being held up by more dirt,
being held up by the rock beneath it all, all at once,
and trust that a year drought won't turn us to dust,

and a willingness to bear fruit for others.

I sometimes wonder how many trees wonder how many trees there are.
I sometimes chuckle, because the chaff more likely knows better,
but then again, the chaff doesn't even know the richness of soil.

And more mewithoutYou, because they've always got something related.