Arborous Condition

I want to be a tree,
deep in the heart of a forest—
where sparrows and robins dart through branches,
singing their springtime songs, carefree; the steady thrum
of the creek meandering past me, murky and pure;
deer’s hooves rustling the shrubs and grass.

I want to photosynthesize:
stretch upward, leaves absorbing
blissful sunlight, exhaling oxygen, clean air—
               no vile smog
         suffocating, stifling
Breathing and living around me:
the squirrels climbing, skittering
about me, sheltered by my trunk;
moss clinging to softened rocks
cradled by my roots.

I want to grow sweet
fruit, juices dripping
sugary sustenance—
stop and rest a moment,
linger in the comfort;
witness this natural beauty
and taste its nectar.
Oh, how gentle the rays
of sunlight filter past
the canopy, crystalline.

I want the forest floor
to be dirt, grass, leaves,
growing and decaying,
cycling and giving
nutrients to soil, rich
moistness, stimulating.
     No crumpled cans, 
     or plastic scraps littered
     and forgotten, choking and killing.

I want to heal			the earth,
nurture				its creations:
me				and all living things

         I want to be a tree.