POEM - The Tree Within Me

(The Poem)

I. Seed

Not flesh, nor bone, nor pulsing vein alone

Defines the space where this strange self is known.

Deep in the loam where consciousness takes hold,

A different architecture starts to unfold.

A seed, small, dark, a promise tightly furled,

Planted before the waking of the world.

No conscious hand, no plan divinely drawn,

Just silent force before the crack of dawn

Of being. There it lies, potential, deep,

While surface currents stir, disturb my sleep.

A tiny knot of "might," of "yet-to-be,"

The quiet core – the nascent tree in me.

II. Growth

Then, slow insistence. Tendrils probe the dark,

A seeking pressure, leaving its faint mark

On inner landscapes, shifting, making room.

It drinks the unseen dew, the hidden gloom

Becomes its nurture. Upward, outward thrust,

A green ambition rising from the dust

Of unformed years. The sapling finds its frame,

A slender pillar whispering my name.

It feels the sun – not yellow orb, but light

Of understanding, piercing sudden-bright

Through childhood's canopy. It feels the rain

Of tears unshed, of unexpected pain,

And gentle showers, kindness softly shed

To swell its heartwood. Branch and leaf and head

Begin to form, a structure taking shape,

Defying entropy, a green escape

From formlessness. The inner compass guides

This vertical ascent where spirit resides.

III. Roots

But oh, the roots! They delve with patient grace

Through strata deeper than this present space.

They coil round fossils of forgotten fears,

Embrace the bedrock of ancestral tears

And laughter turned to stone. They tap the streams

Of ancient stories, fractured hopes and dreams

That seep like minerals into my core.

They anchor fast to what has gone before –

A name, a place, a scent upon the air,

A lullaby, a burden hard to bear.

They grip the earth of lineage, dark and deep,

Where secrets and forgotten sorrows sleep,

Yet draw up sustenance, a potent brew

Of who I was to feed the thing I do,

The thing I am. This tangled, hidden mesh,

A silent testament of bone and flesh

Connecting past to present, deep and wide,

The tree within cannot its roots divide.

IV. Branches

And so it spreads, this intricate design,

A fractal reaching, claiming what is mine

Of sky and circumstance. Each limb a path

Taken or dreamed, aftermath of wrath

Or gentle choice. Some branches stretch out strong,

Bearing the fruit where effort has belonged –

Love nurtured, knowledge gained, a purpose found.

Some twist with questions scarring all around,

The knots of doubt, the bends where winds prevailed

And growth was thwarted, yet the tree prevailed.

New shoots emerge where damage once was done,

A testament to battles lost and won

Against the inner frost. The canopy

Is dense with life, a complex history

Of touching sun and weathering the blast,

A map of all the living I have passed.

Each twig a thought, each leaf a breath I take,

A choice I make, for my own spirit's sake.

V. Seasons

It knows the cycles etched within the soul.

The vibrant flush where passions take control,

When sap runs rich and every leaf unfurls

To catch the golden light, and hope upwhirls

Like pollen on the breeze. Then comes the blaze

Of autumn's inward, contemplative gaze,

Where wisdom turns the foliage to fire,

A letting go of transient desire,

A beauty born of necessary loss.

The starkness follows, bearing winter's cross –

Bare bones exposed against a greying sky,

A seeming death, a stillness passing by.

But deep within, the patient cambium glows,

Preparing silently what no one knows

Will sprout anew. The frost may bite and cling,

Yet hidden life awaits the call of spring,

The patient pulse beneath the bark's disguise,

The constant green within that never dies.

VI. Storm

It bends. Oh, how it bends! When gales descend,

Not from the clouds, but from some inner end

Of patience or of strength. The tempest screams

Through fragile branches, shattering old dreams

Like brittle twigs. The trunk itself may groan,

Assailed by sorrows felt, but not alone

In their intensity. Loss strikes like ice,

A sudden blight, demanding heavy price

In leaves torn free, in confidence laid low.

Doubt's lightning scars the bark with jagged glow.

Yet, rooted deep in something vast and old,

It holds. The inner structure, manifold

And interwoven, flexes, yields, absorbs

The brutal force. Though battered, it endures.

The storm defines the tree, reveals the grain,

The hidden strength forged deep within the pain,

The resilience written in the wood,

That whispers, "Still I stand. Still I am good.

Still I reach upward, even bruised and worn,

Awaiting calmer skies, another dawn."

VII. The Heartwood

And at the core, beyond the seasons' sway,

Beyond the storm's fierce, temporary fray,

Lies heartwood – dense, enduring, deeply still.

Not quick to grow, but formed by patient will

And time's slow pressure. Here, the essence lies,

Beyond the fleeting green that meets the eyes.

The rings of joy and hardship, tightly pressed,

Create a core where truest self finds rest.

Not loud, not demanding, simply there,

A silent strength beyond compare.

It feeds no leaf, supports no outward show,

Yet anchors all the life that dares to grow

Above it. This is where the spirit dwells,

Where the profound, eternal story tells

Its quiet truth. It feels the earth's deep thrum,

The cosmic hum from which all beings come.

It knows its part within the vaster wood,

The interdependence understood

Not with the mind, but with the rooted core.

It simply is, demanding nothing more.

VIII. The Tree

So am I trunk, the pillar holding fast?

Am I the leaves, ephemeral, cast

Upon the winds of time? Am I the root,

The hidden anchor, bearing buried fruit

Of lineage? The branch that seeks the light?

The heartwood, radiating calm and might?

I am the tree – the whole, the complex form,

Weathering every season, every storm.

The photosynthesis of hope and fear,

The slow accretion of each passing year.

A living system, breathing deep and slow,

With seasons mirrored in its inner flow.

Not just a symbol, but the vital frame,

The very structure whispering my name.

The silent witness, growing from the seed,

Fulfilling its own necessary creed

To simply be, to reach, to hold, to stand,

A testament to life's enduring hand.

The tree within – not metaphor, but me,

Rooted in time, yet reaching to be free.

Short Summary:

This poem explores the profound metaphor of an inner tree symbolizing the human spirit. It traces the journey from a buried seed of potential through growth shaped by light and storm, the deep roots of memory and heritage, the branching complexity of experience, the cycles of loss and renewal, and the enduring resilience that weathers time. Ultimately, it reveals the tree not as mere symbol, but as the core architecture of the self – a testament to silent strength, interconnectedness, and the quiet, persistent miracle of being alive.