The trashcan is colorful.
Apples,
grapes,
bananas.
Its colors turn junk into something
b e a u t i f u l.
If I add a piece of my own,
could I be pretty too?
Might as well try.
The sandwich goes
p
l
o
p.
My body protests,
thinking this treatment is unfair,
but it's not,
I deserve it,
I need it.
I head back to the house,
walking by the trees,
They seem to reflect the lush
greens and browns of the earth
just by standing there,
reassuring us with their presence.
And then I see that tree,
hollow,
fragile,
a void of empty hues.
At first glance you'd know
that death marked it with a curse,
it was just, black.
So different from the others, it's
bark withered and cracked,
birds stray to the ends of its branches,
so freedom is in their reach, in case.
But if you look closely inside,
it's spirit remains unharmed,
still fighting, living, there,
no matter age or troubles.
Although one side is raw,
the other is surely perfect,
shame it's virtue is locked in a safe,
never to be seen with the naked eye.
I wonder why I share myself
with this tree, perhaps, possibly,
it is because
it's just like
me.
YOU ARE READING
tree.
Poetry"a feast of words about a girl's opinions about life, her love for trees, and a certain boy."
