A Tree

Not in any quagmire – in a wonderful plain, he raised as a tree among depression. In long thoughts, with a sharp wit, threw needles around in the surroundings. Stood there alone far from his fellows. From time to time bent usually down under the winds. From a high crown to the green grass lay the landscape, behind a swamp there were the hills. In misery there, he looked farther, the stature was higher. Growth had nothing to do with curiosity. Rooted to that ground needed new to be found, besides his own side, in faraway spots. Tortures took root in the stock. Never seen, never challenged: all that was high, all that was far. He’d strive for a valley, but grew in a broad with no kith kin plain.