The tree’s flawless, chocolate-brown branches
reach longingly for perfection as
they latch onto the barrier that holds it back.
It fears that
it isn’t good enough, always
one step behind.
Its glistening auburn leaves shine in the iridescent light,
but even that couldn’t fill
the bare, gaping knothole in its base that was once filled
with contentment and joy.
The butterflies of satisfaction and glee are
absent,
their ghosts haunting the tree with
tiny streaks of giddiness that appear
mockingly.
It was
hollow,
emptiness slowly but surely
devouring the tree like
a mouse nibbling at
its roots. Had it felt any more
vacant, even its bewitching
facade would have been depleted to nothing more than
a pile of charred leaves.
Nothing, not even the rigid silver handcuffs of
community
would stop this of nature’s creatures from attempting to be
incomparable.
The tree would keep trying, reaching,
step after desperate step,
but the knothole can never be filled
when the knothole isn’t the only thing that’s
empty.