Beholder
Above the imperfect nature of this tree,
Birds are forming silver notes on the stave of the sky,
And I see you in this, as I always do.
Some would say it's just a tree,
Justified but ordinary, everyday, commonplace,
Forgettable.
I didn’t plant the seed, or water it, or watch it grow, no,
But I know it now, know its shape and its shade,
Sensing roots I can't see, learning its bark and bite,
Loving unsymmetrical branches and fallen leaves.
You may not understand,
A tree is nothing if not modest,
But the imperfect nature of love and beauty
Makes you, naturally, my kind of spectacular.
By growing with you, the music of the sky
Makes sense at long last.
Copyright © Annabelle Jane | Year Posted 2012
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