Green

Walking slowly, nose up in the air

A web of branches between a stare

And a background of light blue:

Tiny chrysalis of leaves,

Children of a scented spring.

And I, as sable, pale and dry

As the winter sleep,

Feel as tall, majestic and rooted

As the centenary tree.

As I fall in love with my teacher tree,

Or perhaps with myself,

In unison with it,

I envy yet adore its cloud-high reach.

And with an overspilling, chest-ridden bliss,

I forget about the lonely texture

Of the human stature.

While I greet this gift from nature

Introspectively, I formulate

An existential postulate:

Mortal beings, once in winter,

With death and its despair

Their minds will simmer.

But as the season changes, so do they,

Infatuated, the blossoming tree they will obey.

And so, when full of hatred for oneself,

The lonely human shouldn’t forget,

Joy, loathing and whatever in between,

Will come and go, lust like the deciduous tree:

Cyclical is, its seasonal green.