American Tree

A tree aches and cries Barren, twisted, neglected Its fullness defected: The rings count Two hundred thirty-two Its outer mostly me and you (Both real and lore) The center: those who came before. A young fruit ripens on the tree: Oh how it shall save! Chosen for a shine utterly divine, A boldness sleek and brave. A shade of green on a tree of red? Unique in feel and easily fed To the hands with three fingers of five pulled from branches, barely alive? A rush of change, a blush of feel Suddenly the tree does reel With excitement: Could this be its time to heal? But after picked (through times and ways) Its flavor sours; a brown, crinkled, experienced daze. Three fingers drop a bitter core While the tree still lives in dire need As ever as it did before. The tree weeps as growth is fought, Will it ever seed (true) change in thought?