It Aches

The ache is twisted roots gnawing through my chest,

It aches with fatigue from years of winding and bending

Just to fit amongst the brambles

Even though the roots never wanted me there.

There are flowers on the tree, so many flowers,

They blossom and cover me in a smell so strong I can taste it

It dances over me like rolls of thunder,

and beneath it all I can hear a song: my song.

Spun in the air when the wind whistles past the leaves where I grew.

And there are others twisted in these roots,

They claw me and caress me with their fingers, and I do the same to them,

Desperate to know we aren’t alone underneath the arbor.

Sometimes pieces of the tree get up and move,

A sliver of the trunk, leaves, and roots ripping themselves away

Pieces left behind until they return

With new branches unrecognizable over the old.

Different birds, new buds.

New fruit but still the same leaves.

Their roots weave themselves back in their old place without a thought,

Even if they've grown a little too snug.

Sometimes I wonder if I should abandon the tree.

I imagine planting sees of my own.

Of taking my roots and planting myself somewhere they'll never recognize.

Other times I can’t ever imagine leaving.

The warmth of the sunlight,

The crisp chill of winter

The familiar song in the wind.

But what waited outside of the roots?

What could be found beyond the aching?

1000 different seeds to be sewn.

1000 places to plant, some coarse and deadly,

others thriving under the sun.

But I helped grow the tree.

I fed it my time.

My tears have watered it.

My heart as heated it.

I’ve trimmed away dead branches.

I’ve thrown out rotten fruit.

This tree is my home.

And though it may not be forever

For now, it aches for me.