A Symphony Called Maturity

Does a tree look back
At its younger years
With sapling self-
Reproach,

Wondering why it took
So many storms,
A filling out around the gut,
A losing of
The leaves,
Again and again

(Like a 40 year old
With pattern
balding)

Another season
Closer to death,
Another season
Closer to death,

Before realizing the real
Gift of sunlight
And rain,
Neighbors,
Animal and arbor?

Does it fear,
Like us,

It has discovered too late
That it has been in
just the right place
All along,

Its unique placement
In the forest glades of the world,

The perfect shade
And light,
Curvature of the face
And shoulder
And spine?

Like trees, maybe we need
More rings
On the record
Player of our souls,

A symphony we could call
Maturity,

Before we accept
That we are
And are becoming
Exactly who
We’re meant to be:

A swaying bridge
From ground to sky,

A life grounded
And growing
And green,

A home for birdsong
And monkey dance,

A love, planted
In the grace of
A higher design —

Breathing in
What the world gives,

And then breathing out
What the world needs.