Roots
The bare branches of the tired old tree towering tall
above me creak in the frigid whistling wind
coated in a covering of frosty snow
glazed over with a sheet of ice from
the freezing rain that followed
I have not reached the age to hear such sounds
emanating from my bones that have not yet grown
brittle and easily broken
I still have time
At least a little
Though I know the sand slips through the hourglass
with every second I stand here
I don’t look or feel old yet
Even so my life is likely already at least half over
My mind is as agile and youthful
as it was twenty years ago
How can it be that I see myself in that tree?
It is not what ascends upwards from the ground
but what lies below that is a reflection of me
its roots rendering it resolutely immobile
From the time it first sprouted
it has persisted in its position
It will do so until it dies and is cut down
I who once envisioned myself gallivanting across the globe
do not even possess a passport never having had the need
A prisoner in this place that has never in my heart felt like home
I should be across the sea where my bloodline began
Where my ancestors abided
In the land where they take time for tea
and the Thames flows fluidly past parks and palaces
where kings and queens held court
Perhaps someday I’ll have the opportunity to uproot myself
Transplant my body where it truly belongs
before my own branches begin to creak and groan
under the terrible weight of time
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