Trees

Their seeds fall by chance

on any day of the week.

They claw from the ground vigilantly;

it’s the soothing sunlight they seek.

In lavish, lush gardens,

or ominous pines,

alone in a field,

bragging, boasting “I'm the last of my kind.”

(which to them they are; they know nothing that they cannot see. You shouldn't be surprised at the

conceited

headstrong

iron-clad

will of a tree.)

They slowly but surely wrap their winding arms and spiny, olive hair

around anything that dares to blockade them,

like a splintering, wooden snare.

They push and pry, praying that their efforts aren't fruitless,

because nothing is worse than a tree that is rootless.

The most stubborn persevere for centuries,

proud and oh-so smug,

Prospering from way down inside in the intricate holes they've dug.

But others topple too young

at the careless hands of us they live among;

we who don’t bother to listen or see--

we who don't care for the pride of a tree.