Slowly through the brush I came to a plain.
At this sight and thought, only came pain.

No relief, before I began to till,
My heart, then, began to fill.

My hands, and arms, burned with labor,
Yet unaware what I was working for.

Focusing not on there, but here
A lonely trickle down my cheek, a tear.

Not for what was missing,
But for what I had found, loving

The plain for what it was, nothing more,
And not entirely what it was for,

But what it was about.
Finally able to be, without a pout.

Nothing changed, not a tree,
Not a branch -

just me.